Behind the Mask, Part Two
by GrimGravy
Summary: Team Rainbow grows stronger as more Operators from across the globe join the ranks. But with new blood comes new stories, largely untold to the world. What motivates these brave men and women? Why did they join? Who are they behind the mask? This is the sequel to my first Siege fic; comments and constructive criticism are welcome. The last chapter, Harry, is up! (Completed)
1. Chapter 1 - Maverick

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* * *

 **Erik "Maverick" Thorn**

* * *

*Fsssssssss…*

A bright flare brought light to a dim garage at Fort Benning, fusing two metal pieces together, sending sparks into an opaque welding mask. In a corner laid an old stereo playing a foreign song, indecipherable to all save for one man. The tunes helped him concentrate.

They were an ode to Rustam and Sohrab, subjects of a memorable folktale that Erik Thorne learned in Kabul. Once, there was a great warrior-king named Rustam who conceived a son with a princess, but he left her before their baby was born. That child, Sohrab, grew into a mighty champion of a rival kingdom. When war erupted, the two fighters clashed in a climactic battle, unaware of each other's identities. It was only after he pulled his sword out of Sohrab's dying body that Rustam realized that he had just slain his own flesh and blood. Such was the fallibility of man. Such was the price of duty.

This story quickly became one of Erik's faves, a fond memory forever welded into his mind. Unfortunately, nowadays Rustam's epic tale only reminded him of home. Not the place of his old folks to which he owed 36 years of existence. Rather, 'home' meant the dusty, but vibrant streets of Kabul, his favorite shisha bar in the Government Quarter, the mullah's place at the square. All that's left from that life was a well-worn and faded Pakol hat- a gift from the locals. Afghanistan, the vibrant and fascinating culture of the East, had become nothing more than a tattoo on the blonde man's forearm. Such was the price he paid, because he went above and beyond the call of duty to save a life. A stupid decision in hindsight, but it's what true warriors would've done in his shoes…

*Fsssssssss…*

…At least, he still had Suri. The ramshackle blowtorch showed that, all things considered, he got off rather easy from that whole mess more than two years ago.

Sparks continued to flicker onto Erik's face shield as he welded a brand-new seam onto an Army-issue quadbike. It was fresh from the Sandbox, brought to Benning by a unit that shipped home almost two days ago. The ex-intelligence officer had grown fond of the base's motor pool since his reassignment here; the peace and quiet reminded him of simpler times. People were more carefree and relaxed, and there was never a shortage of things for him and Suri to work on. Humvees, mopeds, jalopies, _anything_ that came with a Form 2404. While he was by no-means a qualified mechanic, Erik relished playing grease monkey in his down time. As mundane as it was, the chore helped keep his life interesting. Kept his mind sharp trying new stuff, even if it meant going against a couple of regs.

Even in times of peace, he continued to live up to his _nom de guerre_. Maverick. An unconventional thinker. An unbranded steed, waiting for a master. A purpose.

…

"Thorn? You in there?"

He fumbled his hand after hearing someone call his name, breaking his concentration, and nearly letting Suri slip his fingers. Erik cussed under his breath as he raised his head, looking for the source of the noise. Peering beyond the quadbike in his midst, he saw a man enter the gaping door of the cluttered motor pool, standing outside where the sunlight flanked him. It was a tall guy wearing an Army BDU, a bandaged right leg and a pair of crutches underneath his armpits. The stranger's voice was loud enough to break through the tunes playing in the speakers.

"Hey, Thorn!"

"Over here...", he replied and raised his hand.

Erik stood up with an annoyed sigh, removing his face shield to reveal a rough, sweaty visage with golden whiskers. Rather than accommodate the guest, he immediately went to the bottle of cold water resting beside his toolbox, feeling rather parched all of a sudden. A quick gulp later and he was in the mood for a talk. He felt the need to admonish the guest for intruding such a delicate job, but that would've made him an ungrateful host. Foggy memory slowly gave way to clearness; he had been anticipating this meeting for a quite some time now.

This guy certainly took his sweet time to get to Georgia.

"…You're forty hours late, brother."

"What can I say? You made me limp all the way from Bragg, you bastard. ", the guest joked.

"What happened to your legs?"

"Training accident. You know how it is."

"Uh-huh."

The other man took a few steps forward, exerting greater effort because of his condition. His hands were full; crutches held by both hands, plus a thick-looking folder held onto his right. He also glanced at the radio, perplexed at the mix of percussion and strings coming out of its speakers.

"How've you been, Maverick? Still listening to your 'Greatest Hits of the Hindu Kush', I see..."

"That's my jam. Show some respect.", Erik glared in response, threateningly but halfhearted.

"Heh. Oh, I ain't judging. Just glad to know you're still an oddball…

A smile slowly graced the blonde man's scruffy face, even if it was just a faint turn of lips. Then, he burst into a light laugh with his visitor; it had been a while since the host conversed with another one of his kind. The motor pool was hardly the best place for a little chitchat, however. Mindful of the other people around him, Erik motioned to his guest to join him to a random corner, away from all the prying ears and other distractions. He let the stereo play unopposed.

The guest was an old acquaintance of his, a fellow warfighter in Afghanistan. Brown-haired with a matching scruff, looking none the worse for wear as most Tier-One guys tended to appear. He and Erik had worked together quite a few times, mostly on rare occasions when JSOC suddenly roped them into a joint operation. Granted, the blonde man didn't personally call this fellow a 'friend', as that was something that intelligence officers of all stripes could ill-afford to have. Still, he was glad for the familiarity that existed between them. For the companionship.

But Erik reminded himself to hold back. As much as he appreciated the company of a fellow 'D-Boy', he didn't want to leave his sanctuary just yet. He was still shackled in this place; prevailing marching orders still demanded that he remain here until further notice. The best way to keep an eye on a once-rogue Army spook. As such, Erik resolved to prolong this appointment as far as he could get away with. He offered the guest a cup of water from his bottle, rather the strike a conversation. The latter quickly turned it down, much to the former's slight surprise. If they were still in Afghanistan, the other guy just did something incredibly impolite, one that warranted a fierce shouting. At least that would've made this meeting a bit more interesting...

…

"…I suppose you know why I'm here?"

It was straight to business, then. To pick up from where he left off with that black lady, a few months ago.

"You wanna hire me…", Erik plainly replied. "…Wetworks… Autonomous Ops, off-the-books… That's about it, right?"

"You forgot 'counter-terrorism'. It's an international task force."

"International? Damn, sounds like you're planning an all-star jamboree or something."

His eyes then glanced at the bright green folder clutched by the guest's right hand. It had the word 'Confidential' printed in red, accompanied by the DOD's seal. Right then and there, it dawned to Erik that this _definitely_ was not just some freelance-gig. Neither was it a PMC-type of job that typically appealed to many ex-Delta Force guys. So much time had gone by since that chance meeting in the Pentagon, the day of vindication had finally come. Something that Rustam never got after he killed his own son.

Between the pages contained in the folder was a job opening in the UK. All the paragraphs made it vague as all heck, but the black lady whom Erik talked to, presumably a top-dog in the Department of Defense, said that the job suited him quite nicely. And unlike those armchair idiots she shared an office with, she was more than willing to overlook his tarnished service record. A second chance, a new life away from the Army's overbearing presence. To any good soldier whose career was on probation, the promise of a fresh start would be sweet honey to their ears. And to meet her glorified errand boy in the flesh, this very day, would all but burn away any lingering doubt.

There was only one cinch.

"Why me, though?", Erik asked. "This has something to do with current events?"

The other man scoffed and turned to his side, visibly uncomfortable with the question. As if the blondie suddenly pried and opened a terrible chapter.

"You know the answer to that."

"Heh. Must've been tough being in the thick of it. Coordinated strikes across the board, but only a handful of guys to stop 'em with."

"Don't know what you're talkin' about."

"Oh come on, cut the crap."

There was hardly a soul in Fort Benning who didn't tune in on the news when New York was shot up more than two months ago. To say nothing of the carnage wrought by the attack on Bartlett University, much earlier than that. Erik crossed his arms, with inquisitive eyes looking ahead, staring into the face of the fellow Delta Operator. It was at this point that the brown-haired man knew that the truth was out. There was no use acting dumb in Lieutenant Thorn's midst.

"Bad guys still got what they wanted, even after they lost a lotta men. And despite everything we did, Congress now wants us out of the country."

The news was quite a surprise to Erik, who quickly rationalized his emotions. Some piece of legislation came to mind, but he quickly discarded the thought. This visit suddenly made even more sense.

"Well… You wouldn't be here if things are going well for you boys."

"*sigh* To be honest, manpower's not our only problem…", the guest continued. "…My boss thinks we could use a li'l paradigm shift. That's why we need your help."

"Oh yeah?"

"You have a different skillset, brother. HVT tracking, Human Intel, urban ops... You can run a mission on a shoestring budget… You and Suri are handy for quick infils, plus some S&D..."

"S&D? Sounds like you wanna start another war.", Erik feigned disappointment.

"Point is, we'll need both your brains _and_ your brawn… You're still a crack shot with an M4, I hope."

The blonde man smiled a second time. Like a warrior finally hearing the clarion call after being kept at bay for so long. This was his chance to prove the naysayers wrong, become more than just an overpaid gearhead… But then, he hesitated. The grin quickly disappeared from his lips, replaced by a subdued expression. Wisdom kicked in, realizing he was about to return to the fray without knowing all of the particulars. Rather than indulge his guest further, Erik asked for the green folder again, anxious to gleam more about what he would be getting into. He read through the papers more fervently, anxiously looking for any key detail that would break this deal. Double-checking, even triple-checking to be completely certain.

Blue eyes scanned left to tight, top to bottom, digesting all of the facts until a grim picture was visualized in his brain. 'Current events', as he put it, were a lot worse than he thought. Chemical attacks against children. Indiscriminate bombings against innocents and soldiers alike. A body-count in the hundreds, with the rest of the world none the wiser as to who was responsible for it. All of which done for an unscrupulous agenda that all terrorist psychos usually swore themselves to. Little by little, it became clear to Erik that this new gig wasn't just a meal-ticket. This was certainly nothing as simple as going AWOL to find a missing reporter, barely surviving for two years, and returning with an incredulous tale. What he experienced back 'home' wouldn't hold a candle to the true face of evil.

'Home' suddenly felt like a misnomer.

"New York, Bartlett… they're just a taste of things to come.", the guest added. "And we think we haven't seen the worst of it either. We need to retrain, re-arm… change tactics even."

Erik returned the folder to him.

"If that's the case, then you'll also need someone who can follow orders. I went off-res on my own, remember?"

"You kidding? That Tony Stark-thing you did only tells us you'll fit right in. We could use someone with that kind of initiative..."

The man jerked his head back, to point at the motor pool behind him. _That_ , he meant to say- the initiative to keep soldiering on. To adapt and thrive, no matter how bad things had gotten. No matter how much red tape he had to live with. Erik understood his point, nodding in silence. He also wanted to berate himself, for feeling unworthy of the praise. This whole place had taken a toll on him, perhaps more so than what those two hellish years had done. Fixing up useless crap had gotten him so out of practice.

"…And with you on our corner, maybe we'll get a different perspective on how we're gonna do our job from here on out."

"That's what you need me for? Good advice?"

The guest laughed.

"Well, it's certainly something your boy Rustam didn't get!"

That caused Erik to chuckle, eliciting another beaming a smile to grace his scruff. All the while, the song in the stereo reached its crescendo, as if to further hammer the point home.

"You know that story too?"

"Of course I do! You bored half my guys to death in Kabul with your damn folktales, remember?"

"Yeah, now I remember… _Rohesh shaad_ (May they rest in peace)."

The two men laughed to themselves, catching a few glimpses from other people in the motor pool. It didn't bother them. _This_ was home, for Erik and Suri. Not the drab and crowded walls of a large garage, but the company of another person who shared his vocation. A brother.

And the papers brought by this man were the key to this new life. Erik felt a bit more at ease with the knowledge, more than enough to assuage whatever doubt he had left. His guest then handed him another collection of papers. Blue eyes scanned again like clockwork, processing all the words, numbers, and charts that graced each page. They briefly talked about various subjects, to get him up to speed to things. Mission profiles talked about standard operating procedures that he was all too familiar with. The same brevity codes, the same levels of organization. There was one set of words that caught the intelligence officer's attention.

 _"_ Urban Tactical Response Unit _…_? _"_

"Yup. We call it 'Grim Sky'…", the other man explained. "…You'll have full OpCom, plus free reign to run it like AFO Wolfpack. Just like old times."

"How large will the roster be?"

"See for yourself. Additional assets will be supplied by our friends in Whitehall."

Whitehall. The namedrop was another reassurance that the Brits _really_ were involved in this new job. It lent more weight to Erik's conversation with that black woman a long time ago. Therefore, none of this should be taken lightly. He continued reading, until he encountered the last page of the folder, which contained a series of names, paragraphs, and timelines. This particular page was also accompanied by two-by-two mugshots, thus giving each profile a different face and heading. "Dominic Brunsmeier". Miles Campbell". "Taina Pereira". "Mei Lin Siu". There was also a fearsome bare-headed chick on the list. "Morowa Evans", Detective Constable for the London Met.

New coworkers, hailing from different tongues and walks of life. His _new_ colleagues. His fresh start.

"So, are you in?"

The guest was eager for a favorable answer. To Erik's shame, he was rather hesitant to respond in kind. He took a few seconds to glance around the motor pool, feasting on all the other jobs he would be leaving unfinished.

"I'm gonna need more time, man… There's still work to be done here."

It was quite a tough call to leave them at the drop of a hat, but he was now being called elsewhere. And he knew he had to answer. At this point, the sensible thing was to say 'yes' and shake the other man's hand. It would be the perfect segue to a whole new chapter in Erik's life. Instead, he glanced at Suri again, imagining what kind of crap they would go through this time. No matter. Their place was in battle, in the midst of warriors like the great Rustam himself in his time. If only he could return to those dusty streets, to the crowded bar, to the old teacher's house in the square...

No matter. This was the price Erik was willing to pay. He could still do some good.

"Well whatever you do, don't hurt yourself Maverick.", the guest motioned to his crutches. "The boss lady wants to snatch you before JSOC sends you off to another hellhole somewhere."

"Tch. 'Boss lady'…What the hell is her name anyway?"

His guest replied with a sheepish grin; a welcome to his new home.

"Rainbow Six."

…

* * *

 **Author's Comments/Notes:** This (long overdue) first chapter is a soft-sequel to 'Freedom Day', of Ace meeting with Maverick to recruit him into Team Rainbow. The next chapters will be their own standalone affairs, unrelated to that story. Please stay tuned for more! Coming up next is Lion.


	2. Chapter 2 - Lion

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* * *

 **Olivier "Lion" Flament**

* * *

…

" _C'est loin_ (How far is it)?"

" _On y est presque_ , _monsieur_ (We're almost there, sir)."

Somewhere in Guinea, a lone APC traversed the dirt road with all haste, past small homesteads and villages. The search for the missing aid workers was well underway.

From their bulletproof windscreens, members of the 2nd Dragoon Regiment witnessed firsthand the misery caused by the ongoing Ebola epidemic. Stores were closed, houses were boarded up. People were in the streets, wailing desperately for help. Mask-wearing officers struggled to keep the peace. It was chaos: the immediate outcome of a viral outbreak left unchecked. As friends and family succumbed to illness, people would easily turn to anguish for succor. And Olivier knew all too well that anguish was but a small leap towards _anger_ , by itself a contagious disease. Too many angry people in one place would start a riot. Bloodshed wouldn't be too far behind.

Rationalizing the nature of chaos was the Frenchman's way of keeping a clear head, as his armored vehicle passed from one gut-wrenching scene to another. None of this was his fault, the brain kept repeating. This entire province was already on the brink of collapse, even before he and his men were shipped here. Until now, he stood by his decision to keep the Dragoons at bay these past few weeks. His men were better off serving as sentries and peacekeepers, rather than as babysitters for the aid workers working in this part of the country. An easy decision to make in hindsight, but die had already been cast.

And he was about to pay for it.

*engine stops*

" _Soyez alertes, les gars_ (Look alive, boys).", he spoke into his headset.

Olivier's platoon finally reached their destination: the fish market a few miles away from the main treatment center. Earlier today, they were tipped off by a few locals who claimed that the missing MSF personnel had been found. The Dragoons expected little fanfare in this place; at worst, the locals would just throw stones at them. But instead, the soldiers came across a peculiar scene. A large crowd of dark-skinned men and women, whispering among themselves, huddling around… something.

" _Mon Dieu_. _Sommes-nous trop tard_? (Oh my God. Are we too late?)", the driver asked, visibly worried.

Olivier refused to indulge in pessimism.

"Alpha _, déployez-vous_ (spread out).", he radioed again. " _Établissez un périmètre et faites sortir tout le monde_ (Establish a perimeter and get those people out of there)."

The Dragoons dismounted from the APC, weapons at the ready. Within moments, they converged upon the market square in an echelon formation, startling much of the crowd with the sight of fearsome soldiers in gas masks and Hazmat suits. It was exactly what Dragoons drilled for, containing panic even in the midst of an ongoing viral outbreak. The team leader was at the forefront, using hand signals to direct his troops, while he marched into the source of the commotion. Flanked by two of his best men, Olivier made his way past the massive throng with faint hope in his heart. He prayed that his subordinate was mistaken.

Parting the last group of people like a curtain, that was when he realized that his wish was in vain. To their surprise, the rescue force had already been beaten to the scene by a single man. Copper-like complexion, slightly greyed hair, with a physique that could only be that of a soldier. Rather than a combat uniform, he was donning the white-and-red colors of Médecins Sans Frontières. MSF. He was an aid worker. Or at least for today, he was one of them…

…

"Gus?"

Olivier called to the man. Gustave Kateb, GIGN medic and volunteer humanitarian. The man didn't budge for a few seconds when he heard his name. Then, he slowly turned around with teary eyes, staring down his own countryman, who in turn was startled by what he saw beyond. Behind the good doctor was a pit, hastily dug in the fish market, where the bodies of six people were unceremoniously dumped. They, too, wore the white-and-red shirts. Pale skinned, unmoving, beaten to a bloody pulp, beyond recognition. The missing aid workers had been found.

The Dragoons were too late.

"Gus…"

*smack*

It happened so fast. Without batting an eye, Gustave lunged at Olivier with a clenched fist, felling the latter with a swift right hook. The masked soldier dropped to the ground, causing his rifle to tumble in the process, much to the fright of the gawking onlookers. It immediately caused a stir, nearly prompting the soldiers to shoot their own countryman out of reflex. But they let their training take hold. The two men accompanying the leader seized the initiative to restrain Gustave, while the rest of the platoon shouted at the civilians to back away. There was much yelling and cussing in the air, adding to the chaos. It was incredibly tempting to fire off a warning shot to bring order.

" _C'est de ta faute_ (This is all your fault)!", the man screamed at Olivier.

The words felt like daggers, stabbing into his heart. Still reeling from the punch, he stood up from the ground with eyes turned away. He struggled not to be overcome by guilt. As for Gustave, he let his scorn made known to all. Though held down by heavily-armed men, he continued to struggle in their clutches, eager for another shot at the man he believed was responsible.

" _C'est de ta faute, Lion!"_

Olivier laid his eyes on the lifeless bodies, of the people he thought he could save. He struggled to find the words to defend himself, but he instead muttered a quick prayer, beseeching for the poor souls before him to enter Heaven. Then, his brain started to gleam the facts, analyzing them like a computer. None of this couldn't have happened if he only spared a few men to protect the aid workers, as they asked him to do. But what choice did he have? How else could he have kept them safe, if there were countless others in the Capitol who needed protection? What was six lives compared to hundreds, if not thousands?

…

No. He didn't regret any of this.

…

* * *

...

It had been almost two years since that incident. That last straw that ended a once-amicable relationship between two distinguished soldiers. As far as Olivier was concerned, however, it was all water under the bridge. He had already left the Dragoons and his rather-brief service with the GIGN was about to end as well. Thankfully, another job awaited him, which he had already accepted a few months ago.

For now, though, he was in Amsterdam. A civilian this time around, attending the annual World Forum on Biohazard Safety and Control. There were quite a few familiar faces in the jam-packed conference hall: licensed doctors, rescue workers, and CBRN specialists from across the world. He avoided making eye contact with them, not finding the heart to indulge in small talk. Slouched in his seat with arms crossed, he instead paid attention to the speaker on the podium, dressed in formalwear like the rest of the crowd.

This whole thing was a pit-stop: one last business to deal with before the flight to England.

"…Chaos is something we _can_ avoid…", Dr. Valeria Melnikova continued her lecture. "…We cannot work with a beleaguered people if we present ourselves as conquerors, not as _friends_ …"

She pressed the clicker to change slides, which contained all sorts of diagrams and charts. It was a detailed proposal for a more efficient CBRN triage system, vetoed by the World Health Organization, that could be used in case of another Ebola outbreak. Unlike the ones found in medical journals everywhere, her system was a curious mix of military-style logistics management and proactive interpersonal communication. It mirrored her own background as a former Spetsnaz combat medic and as a civilian doctor in Novosibirsk.

'Lera', as she preferred others to call her, thought it would be a great idea to bring Olivier along today. After all, he too was well-versed in all matters concerning Chemical, Biological, Radiological, and Nuclear threats. And admittedly, her lecture did bring up a few interesting points, like how information dissemination could keep the locals calm during an outbreak. Her system of managing and distributing medical supplies in treatment centers could do wonders in preventing backlog. But as a whole, the lecture wasn't really working for him. Olivier actively nitpicked her designs with cold logic while the red-haired doctor droned on with her presentation. Assuaging fears with an information drive would be useless if the ignorant locals were as stubborn as rocks. Backlogs in treatment should _always_ be expected in an outbreak, on account of mass panic and limited resources. The list went on.

"…Let us all remember the oath we swore. _Servitas vitae_. To save lives. That, ladies and gentlemen, should always be in our hearts and minds... Thank you."

*round of applause*

The Frenchman joined in. At the very least, he should give his colleague props for the thought-provoking discussion, even if he didn't entirely agree with all of it.

…

The Forum was over. The dim conference hall was brought back to vibrant light, revealing empty desk chairs and half-finished drinks. Guests and panelists shook hands with each other, while Olivier made his way to Lera, who was talking to an elderly man- a government-type perhaps. The crowd was quite dense and claustrophobic, and the Frenchman had to tip his toes a bit and wave his hand to get the woman's attention. Upon making eye contact, she quickly excused herself from the old guy and walked towards her colleague, brushing shoulders with random folk along the way. The two doctors exchanged pleasantries.

"You should be a teacher, Lera. Your accent makes people want to pay attention."

Rather than thank Olivier for the compliment, the woman instead frowned at him.

"Hmph. Look who's talking. I saw you slouched on your seat..."

The sudden jab was embarrassing, but well-deserved. The man chuckled awkwardly, realizing too late that he had offended her a while ago. Before he could explain himself, Lera put a hand up at him and walked away, to the backstage and get her things. The man had no choice but to follow. This was all lighthearted banter; standard fare for the two pros who worked together before.

"…Did I bore you?", she asked.

"No… No."

"But you were deep in thought."

"*sigh* It's just that… You should not trivialize CBRN protocols that way.", the man stated frankly. "I mean, fieldwork is unpredictable, but we should always stick to the SOP in the end."

"Oh? I suppose shouting at a mob of villagers is in-line with 'standard operating procedures', then?",

Olivier was taken aback by her innocent joke, referring to that incident that earned him his nickname. A rather peculiar episode in his life, much like the one that started his feud with Gustave. Frustration began to build right off the bat, as he certainly didn't expect to be reminded of _two_ bitter memories in a single day. Nonetheless, he remained calm as he walked with her, all the while debating a few points she previously made at the podium.

"I'm serious, Lera.", he continued. "Your proposed system does not account for the possibility of violence during a viral outbreak. Trust me, it can happen."

She seemed unfazed by his argument.

"I know it does. That's why us doctors need to be even more humane. You can't expect people to accept our help if we bring tanks and APCs with us."

"You put too much faith on the locals. When things get desperate, even 'civilized people' become irrational, stupid… _angry_."

They could even kidnap and murder the ones trying to save them, he wanted to add. Brief flashes of those dead aid workers came to mind. Six senseless deaths, six victims of misguided vengeance, all because people couldn't accept that their loved ones were no more. That it was the doctors' fault that the outbreak could not be contained. It was a frustrating reality to recollect.

"But guns aren't the answer either, are they?", Lera refuted. "…Before we can work to contain an outbreak, we must first earn the people's trust."

"…"

"Remember that incident in Guinea? The MSF said-"

"Argh, I'm not having this talk again! Forget I said anything."

Olivier felt his temper flare for a bit, nearly causing him to shout in the middle of the crowd. It was noticeable enough for Lera to stop her next words; she too was startled by the quick change of mood. Embarrassed by his outburst, the Frenchman sighed and looked away. A quick apology was immediately discarded, in favor of maintaining a stoic, unregretful face. Right then, it became clear to the female doctor that they would have to put their little 'academic debate' on hold, before it ventured into somewhere unpleasant.

It didn't take long for the pair to reach the backstage, where their belongings were kept in a locker. This time they didn't exchange words, even as they grabbed their bags, took out the spare clothes, and started to change into them. They gave each other privacy as silence prevailed the atmosphere- filled with dull stillness and dead air. With the Forum done, there was only one more thing for the two doctors to do before they could return to the hotel. Then, the flight to England at an unspecified time. Apparently, it was SOP for their new employers to withhold travel details until the last minute. A fair kind of security arrangement, but the sooner that the flight came, the better.

Team Rainbow. That was the name of the future that awaited Olivier and his colleague. It was some sort of top-secret unit, headquartered somewhere in the UK, currently in need of some CBRN expertise. No natural disasters to deal with this time; the two doctors would be going up against calamities brewed in a terrorist group's chemistry lab. Most people would think that there was a big difference between them, but man-made disasters and natural ones ultimately had the same outcome. Death, chaos, carnage, as with dozens of hot zones that any experienced crisis response would be familiar with.

From what the man had gathered so far, a few of his fellow _Gendarmerie_ officers were working in this unit as well, thus explaining their sudden departure from the GIGN last year. Gilles, Emmanuelle, Julien… And of course, the man who had already cut ties with him.

"Olivier.", Lera called.

"Hmph. What?"

He didn't need to turn around to see her anxious expression, out of concern for his sake. And he was right- she stared at him, worryingly, while she wore a jacket over her blouse and jeans. Like she knew what was going on in his head at the moment. Female intuition perhaps.

…

"What happened two years ago… It was not your fault."

The man scoffed, remembering what logic and reason had kept telling him since it happened.

"People died, and I hope I can find forgiveness for it. But what I did, I did to save more lives. I'd do it again. That's doing my job..."

Olivier turned around as he finished buttoning up his shirt. Her colleague needed to know his conviction.

"…And I know we can never save everyone."

"That doesn't mean we shouldn't _try_.", she insisted.

" _Pour l'amour du ciel (_ Oh for heaven's sake)... It's like to talking to a brick wall."

"Olivier… One of these days, that by-the-book attitude of yours will be your undoing."

A quick laugh escaped his lips. Olivier wanted to talk back on her, remind her that he had already moved on. There was only answer he could say.

"I know."

Lera shook her head, disappointed at his response. He was sorry that she felt that way, but he'd just about given up on explaining himself to everyone. Everything he did that day, every decision he made, every sacrifice… They were all for the greater good. Hundreds of people were kept safe and sound because he ordered his men to guard them, rather than protect six volunteers who gambled with their lives. Such a harsh statement to say in one's mind, but that was the truth. An untenable situation would never have a good ending.

And he was never proud of the fact that he had an active hand in it. Would there have been another way? Perhaps so. Perhaps he should've run double-shifts with his men, work the extra mile to make sure everyone lived. Perhaps he should've let Gustave tear him to shreds, give a fiery and altruistic heart a chance to defeat one ruled by cold-logic, just to see who was right in the end. Perhaps, if Olivier had done a little better at this job, six lives would not have been lost on that fateful day. They said that die had already been cast, but perhaps they had been _wrong_ all along?

None of that mattered now. Such was the benefit of hindsight, giving everyone perfect vision when tragedy was already over and there was nothing left than to point fingers. But it shouldn't be this way. He couldn't keep working like this. He needed a different perspective. Perhaps that was what Lera was telling him all this time? While his brain earnestly looked for an answer, he looked at his colleague again, hoping to break the ice. He was surprised to see that the red-haired doctor was already by the backstage exit, a bag slung across her shoulder and a hand near the door knob. Her other hand was wrapped around her smartphone, reading an important message.

It seemed that their orders had finally arrived.

"Six wants to meet me at the American Embassy...", she muttered without looking at him "…You don't have to come."

There was still time to make the right decision. At the last minute, Olivier grabbed his backpack and hurried to the woman's side, maintaining a dull expression. She was surprised by his sudden enthusiasm, an abrupt change of mood. He didn't want her to know that her words were starting to work.

"I'll drive.", he muttered. "How far is it?"

Team Rainbow. While he'd made his fair share of bad calls, he probably wouldn't regret this one.

…

* * *

 **Author's Comments/Notes:** I've always found the feud between Lion and Doc intriguing, ever since I read about it on the former's Bio page. But given the lack of information on the incident, I created my own version of it based on something I read about the West African Ebola Outbreak (with a whole lot of creative liberties taken, of course). And before anyone asks: no, I did not make Lion and Finka into a couple in this chapter, nor do I intend to do so in the future. Nano-girl only has her eyes set on Chunky-boy himself. ;)

Up next is Vigil!


	3. Chapter 3 - Vigil

**.**

* * *

 **Chul Kyung "Vigil" Hwa**

* * *

...

Late night in Herefordshire.

A queue had already formed up by the counter. The barman, wearing a friendly smile, handed out drinks to the nearest in line. Patrons either sat on propped up stools or stood around high tables, all gripping icy-cold mugs of their favorite booze. Chatter filled the air, practically drowning out the soft jam in the jukebox. While most enjoyed the libations, others took the chance to dance the night away, getting them a few stares from some of the locals. They seemed like tourists acting like they were still in London, blissfully unaware of 'house rules' in the pub. 'Pub', not 'bar', as Old Man Baker pointed out at the Base a few hours ago. At this point, Chul Kyung Hwa was definitely out of his comfort zone.

Alas, things could've been worse. Tonight was not some mandatory binge party like the ones he avoided back home. He only went here because someone had to watch over Grace, who insisted on tagging along with the rest of the gang. Technically, he could leave once the damn hellion had had her fill. Considering her alcohol tolerance, it was only a matter of time.

"Hey Chalky!", Craig Jenson called out, fresh from the queue, cradling almost a dozen mugs.

"..."

"Take your beer off me, will ya? My hands are gettin' slippery."

The other man let his narrowed eyes do the talking. 'My name is not Chalky!', was what he wanted to blurt out, but that would only be a pointless rebuttal. The smiling Yank had known him long enough to earn the right of calling him stupid nicknames. It was the same dynamic they had in Afghanistan, and it was natural for him to bring that here, in England.

Craig, wearing an open jacket and a beige field cap, looked like was just about to tip over from all the drinks he was holding. Sighing to himself, Chul Kyung strode to the man's side and lent him a hand to prevent an embarrassing scene. With one less beer to worry about, Craig then went on his merry way to deliver the rest of the booze; the other members of Team Rainbow were all sitting on a table at the far end of the bar. Well, 'all' might be a tad inaccurate, considering that Grace was not in their midst, and was instead bogeying on the dancefloor and mingling with strangers. Her party wardrobe had her trademark beanie and fake glasses, as usual. She was definitely intoxicated, despite what her sober countenance would suggest. But she was in a 'pub', not a bar. Soon, one the locals would later ask her to behave herself or leave.

Just another proof that inebriation was a universal fact of human existence, regardless of culture or race…

"Oi, mind your eyes mate.", Mark Chandar bumped the Korean man's elbow, snapping him out of the brief trance. "You might stare someone to death."

"Huh?"

"You're eyeballing Miss-Four-Eyes over there. Discretion's supposed to be your strong suit, innit?"

"...Whatever."

The response was a single word, followed by a sip from the cold mug. A marked improvement over his last reply. 'I'm not eyeballing her!', came another thought. But that would only open him to even more teasing, as would any group of people do.

It had only been a couple of months since he and Grace joined the Team. A couple of months since that skirmish in Seoul together with the Polish commandos, which they barely walked away from. Now, it was the same routine, in a different. Day One was predictable: a boy and a girl joining the Team together quickly became the subject of teasing from a few of their new coworkers. They thought that the two Koreans they were... 'close'. As if a more stupid, hormonal drivel was yet invented: another facet of humanity that seemed universal. But for someone purported to be a man of few words, "Mute" seemed to enjoy picking on the stoic White Tiger soldier the most. It might be because he had finally found someone more peculiar than him.

*gulp*

The warm liquid graced Chul Kyung's throat with an unusual taste, causing him to grimace a bit. This was the first time he was drinking a genuine British lager, and not those knock-offs sold in Busan's _pochas_. Mark, meanwhile, was sitting nearby and holding his own drink: an ice-cold pint of stout judging from its dark hue. After taking a quick gulp, he pulled out a smartphone from his jacket and swiped the screen. It appeared that the kid was reading dossiers on his portable device: the words 'Maverick' and 'Lion' instantly caught curious eyes.

"I don't think you should be doing that here."

Specifically, skimming through the profiles of elite counter-terror operatives while in a public venue. He always did love working on the fly.

"Ugh, I already told you the pub's safe, yeah? The Old Man's scoped this place out for us tonight..."

Such a bold statement, on account of the unadulterated merrymaking happening all around. Undisciplined, the lot of them. Something like this wouldn't fly with the 707th whose strict rules and decorum still applied even after shifts. 'Drinking' was a ritualized group effort. Everyone was expected to share from a single, large bottle, with the oldest person or highest-ranking officer of the troupe pouring shots to the rest. The drink of choice was usually _soju_ , not beer, and each tavern on any given street would quickly claim that they have the best brand. Eye contact and table manners were observed, even when the jokes started making the rounds. And unless they wanted to miss the morning muster, the White Tigers would _always_ leave the joint before the barkeep announced the last call.

The Korean mused to himself, as he was never a fan of clubs and taverns to begin with. But the more he thought about them, the more he realized he was getting homesick again.

"…Just shut your gob and stalk Grace or something.", Mark finished his sentence.

"Tch. Sounds something you'd do."

"Come on, Markie-boy. Leave him alone..." Another voice chimed in.

It was Craig, finally free from the burden of being the designated delivery boy. He walked to them with a confident stride and a mug of beer on hand, wearing a brotherly grin of his own. He propped up a stool by the counter, rudely disturbing Chul Kyung's personal space, before giving him a solid tap on the back. Strong enough to almost spill the guy's drink and quick enough to nearly cause him to snap back in brief rage.

"…He's just making sure that Dokkaebi over there doesn't trip her feet."

"You're telling me he's a gentleman?"

"Sure! He likes to watch his friends' backs. Just wait till ya see him in action…", he patted his friend's shoulder. "…Once we're in the field, you'll be glad he's on our side."

"Cheers to that then… But he's still a creep."

How embarrassing for the Yank to bring up their time in Afghanistan. Or perhaps it was that one incident during their peacekeeping duty in Iraq?

Either way, the teasing was getting stronger, and the urge to leave the pub was not very far behind. Chul Kyung felt that all the laughter and awkward stares were directed at him, threatening to burst his safe bubble. At this point, he wanted to disappear, be somewhere outside and away from the revelry, than to be spending his remaining free time in the pub. Team Rainbow's idea of R-and-R away from Hereford Base was a terrible one, as far as he was concerned. A pub-crawl might be cathartic after the hellish morning drills and the intense training in the afternoon, but it was still a massive waste of time. It was the same thing he didn't like during his service in the Navy. The same thing he loathed about shore leave with the 707th.

He wished he had his mask with him. Or at least something that covered his rough, ascetic face, to hide from this crowd of strange people. He felt like an open book, a naked man in metaphor, thrust into a room of soldier boys and girls that he didn't expect to be working with when he signed up. Alas, luck was not on his side tonight. And so he decided to chug the contents of his mug in short order, eager for an excuse to finally go home. He didn't care about Grace. That is, until he stopped halfway, feeling a slight tang of regret. He realized what an ungrateful bastard, and a bad friend, he had just become.

"Woah, hold your horses big guy.", Craig looked at him accusingly. "What's the hurry, huh?"

"Sorry. I-I…"

"Take it slow. This ain't Busan where the booze flows like water."

The former SEAL had caught wind of his ploy and laughed, right before raising his mug for another chug. The Korean smiled awkwardly, setting his glass down to prevent future temptations to excuse himself. His brain shouted at him in silence, berating him for such poor form. He should be thankful that he had the chance to socialize like this. To be accepted. To be part of a family.

Things could've been worse. Back then… in the 'old country'… he would've been lucky if he had something to eat for breakfast. One jug of cold water would've been a feast, one bedtime free from mosquitoes would've been called 'a good night's rest'. His memories from that time were… muddled at best, probably for the better. He no longer had to worry about starvation or destitution; he now had enough vigor in him to complain about mundane things. He already had a new name and a new life. He should be more thankful. And it was here that he realized that silence befell their space, thanks to his awkwardness. He needed to fix it, still ever mindful of his body language.

"Craig.", he broke the ice while staring at the half-full glass. "How did you get used to all of this?"

"Eh?"

"This… place. The sounds, scenery. Everything."

The bearded man was puzzled by his choice of small words. Then he burst out in brief laughter, shaking his head all the way. Long-term familiarity with the White Tiger commando's quirks was quite evident.

"Ha! You'll fit right in brother; don't worry!"

"You sure about that?"

"Of course! Rainbow's like our old outfit in Gardez, but with more weirdos and prima donnas..."

"Hm. On that we can agree Jenson.", Mark commented.

"I was actually referring to _you_ too."

"Piss off. This creep over here ogles the girls, yet _I_ am the weird one?"

The three men burst out laughing, briefly, then chugged their drinks again. Of course, the one who had his mug barely half-full was the first to empty it. Craig immediately noticed it and asked the barman to give him another round. Chul Kyung couldn't find it in him to protest, but the British lad insisted that he take the fresh pint. Pub customs and all.

It wasn't so bad after all. From orphan, to citizen, to sailor, to White Tiger, the man known to the world as 'Chul Kyung Hwa'. There was once a point in his life when he thought he was done for. A waste of skin. All the suffering and lost he endured from… back when, they all should've been enough to kill his taste for life. He never even thought he'd live long enough to enjoy a mug of beer in England. Now, he had more than what he ever bargained for. A new lease in life. A new identity, a new purpose. And a high-paying job as well, at least for a soldier of his caliber.

Once again, he scanned the room for Grace Nam, the skunk-striped hellion of the 707th. She was still in her same spot, only a few meters away, dancing with fervor and cheered on by some of the bar goers. The girl seemed really into the upbeat music from the pub's music box; her eyes were closed and she swayed her hips with no care in the world. Always a rebel. Her antic was enough to elicit a smile on her fellow countryman. He was always impressed by her tenacity to defy all expectations. To act on her own volition, with no regret. He always envied that quality of hers…

...

"Is that normal?", Mark also looked on. "Her wiggling her arse like that."

"With enough beers, yes."

Suddenly, Mark turned to him with an impish grin. It was totally out of character from the straight-laced Operator.

"Alright, _now_ I'm curious. Is there _really_ anything between you two?"

"Huh?", he raised an eyebrow, slowly processing what the lad was yammering about.

"Oh come on, you know what I mean."

"...No. Nothing like that."

A reply given with a stoic face, but the young man was having none of it. Craig, frustratingly, also joined in the joke and pointed to his own eye. 'See how he looks at her!' he seemed to say. A sure fire way to spot a would-be stalker or an unrequited paramour. This time, the Korean stood his ground and refused to make a fool of himself. He looked away from them, unflinching, until they slowly devolved into a barrel of laughs. If the bar's patrons weren't so pre-occupied, they would all be giving them a strange look as well.

Indeed, things could've been worse.

"You idiots are just wasting your time."

"Hahah! Come on Chalky, lighten the heck up will ya?"

"Easy for you to say...", said the stern man, mildly annoyed at the stupid nickname yet again. "…Director Six expects a lot from me and Grace… I hope I can do my job well. Make my country proud. I'd rather control myself than compromise my chances of achieving that."

And there was a lot on the table for him, that much was certain. Electronic countermeasures, infiltration-and-extraction, target interdiction. And it had only been a few months since White Noise, his brief brush with death in Seoul. The list of roles that Team Rainbow expected him from him was quite long. A huge responsibility rested on his shoulders, on top of the one he gave to himself for the sake of one woman. It was daunting, to say the least, but it was nothing he had not done before. At least for that, he could have full confidence on himself.

"Good grief...", Mark continued to laugh. "…That's the longest sentence I've ever heard from you, mate."

"Whatever."

The teasing was getting to his nerves, but he knew it was just a ploy to get him to react. He couldn't wait for this night to end. But at the same time, he found himself enjoying it. And so he took one more sip of his beer…

He still had Grace on his sights. As she danced on like there was no tomorrow, she suddenly stopped in her tracks and clutched her stomach. Her eyes went wide and she had one hand covering her mouth. Her body was bent over, heaving. A few of the patrons noticed that she looked sick and asked her if she was alright. Without missing a beat, Chul Kyung set his glass aside and rushed to reach her. She was barely able to get her bearings, as if she was completely smashed, while she struggled to keep herself from hurling chunks. The two of them made haste to the bathroom, which was so eagerly pointed by the friendly barman.

…

* * *

...

Late night in Hereford. For the locals, happy hour had just barely started. But for one woman, it was just about time to head on home. She wobbled woozily, struggling to get her bearings. Lucky for her, her fellow White Tiger was quite eager to lend her a hand. Or a shoulder, in this case. People didn't pay them heed as they walked beside the street; drunks were probably a normal sight in this side of England. This was the price she had to pay for her behavior.

Like Craig said, the man could be counted on to watch his friends' backs.

"*burp* Chul Kyung...?", Grace mumbled.

" _Jinjeonghae_ (Take it easy).", he replied. It was a relief to hear a proper rendition of his name for once. "I told you the beers are stronger here."

Mindful of his friend's state, he tugged her close, knowing she might tumble flat on her face and break her chic glasses at any given moment. Someone taking a picture of them would mistake one for the other's lover. Such a stupid. Would've made for a magnificent story back at the Base too, if only he had it in his heart to sully her reputation. Oddly enough, he felt at ease with his his place in the grand scheme of things. He might be a foreigner thrust along a strange group of people, but he was satisfied to be their designated-guardian. Their vigilant watcher.

It was only a few more steps until they reached the taxi stop outside of the pub. Grace, still wobbly and woozy, wanted to break free from her friend's grasp and hail a cab herself. Chul Kyung quickly kept her in check; he kept a firm hand on her shoulder, dissuading her to do as she pleased.

" _Na noh meewo_ (I hate you).", she hissed.

 _Ani-eyo, '_ You're welcome', was the response that his brain wanted him to utter. But seeing her totally wasted was more than enough to bring him brief satisfaction. And so, he smiled to no one in particular, letting his upturned grin do the talking. Tonight was not quite a bad night, all things considered. N

...

* * *

 **Author's Comments/Notes:** This segment is heavily inspired by a Rainbow Six short comic I encountered at Art Station. It had no dialogue, at least as far as I know, so I created a whole new story out of it (I also took the characters and the setting). Vigil came across to me was that of an aloof brother looking out for his little sister; perhaps that's the reason behind his nickname?

Anyway, on to the next Operator: Pulse!


	4. Chapter 4 - Pulse

**.**

* * *

 **Jack "Pulse" Estrada**

* * *

...

*Beep! Beep!*

The smartphone woke him from his deep and dreamless slumber. Everything was a haze. He blinked his eyes a few times to fight off the lingering drowsiness, while his vision adjusted to the darkness. He was in his room, wearing his undergarments, with the mother of all headaches. The beeping little gizmo told him that it was half-past four in the morning, a mild surprise at that. It had just been less than a couple of hours since he had returned from Rainbow's night in the town. Tagging along suddenly seemed like a bad idea in hindsight.

The thought caused him to cuss in his head. Whatever scant strength he had on his body, he used it to get off the bed and head to the bathroom, lurching a bit like a zombie. He did his business, brushed his teeth and washed his face, then went to his closet to don his PT gear. He graced his bald head with a wool winter cap, shielding him from the harsh morning cold of England. And before he knew it, he was out of the barracks and into dusk-lit courtyard, marking the first steps of his morning jog. He'd have to take breakfast later.

Almost immediately, he realized that he was no longer the early bird he touted himself to be. A few members of Team Rainbow were already making their laps around the Base's runway, adjacent the "brand-new" Kill House at Building C. The guys wearing their white-and-brown PT uniforms were already far away, prompting the man to pick up the pace as best he could. Trailing behind them was a woman, judging by her lithe figure in the distance, who donned a different pair of jogging pants. He recognized her right off the bat, but he opted not to open his gob and greet her.

Discipline. It came with being a military kid, despite how clichéd it sounded. Every Saturday, Mr. Mark Peterson would rile him from his bed before the sun had risen. If a tap to the face didn't do the trick, a splash of cold water would. Then an hour-long lap around the base- Seymour, MacDill, Edwards, where his parents were posted at the time didn't matter. He detested this strange family bonding of theirs when he was young, but it grew on him as he got older and became his own man. The morning jogs were hardcoded into his being no matter where he went. Perdue, Quantico, and now Herefordshire.

He missed that life, much as he wanted to hide it. Best not waste any more time.

…

After a hot shower and a quick bite at the cafeteria, he went straight to the second-floor Staff Wing, which was located at the Base's refurbished Ops Center, designated Building A. It was already time to clock in to start his shift.

And by 'shift', it meant working as an intelligence staffer, which was basically the same job he had just a few years prior. In other words, paperwork: more so than the usual fill he had at the FBI's field post in LA. Strange to think that even a top secret counter-terror taskforce, backed by the highest powers in the UN no less, was not at all exempt from the bane of the modern office. To an outsider, Rainbow was probably all about physical training, practicing with firearms, and taking down the bad guys in style. The reality was far less glamorous; if there was no action going on, the Team was studying operational notes, managing inventory, signing forms, and so on. And as an 'intelligence staffer', the job practically tripled, essentially demanding that he be a one-man HR department.

The added workload was in part due to the ruckus those masked psychos had caused a few months ago.

"You know we can do this later, _ja_?", Monika Weiss complained.

"Nuh-uh. The boss wants all fingerprint re-calibrations done before 0600..."

He held her hand on the biometrics scanner, waiting for the beep. When it did, he looked at his monitor again for the correct feedback, which came out as a bright green tick on a checkbox. Her right thumb was now recognized by the system.

"…And that's that.", Jack smiled behind his eyeglasses. "The VR system should be able to recognize you now."

The disinterested look from the woman turned into a grin of mild amusement; it was elation for finally reaching the end of a tedious bore. It was a hallmark of 'overachievers' and 'poindexters' everywhere: disliking the mundane where something more productive could be done with their time. The way Monika sighed and leaned back on her seat made her relief all the more palpable, proving Jack's assertion. Briefly, he wondered if the woman was simply overreacting. Or how she was even able to remain cognizant despite the hangover that nearly everyone was having right now.

 _Ah, crap. I'm overthinking again._

"Can I expect to see you there later?", she continued.

"So that you can kick my butt again? Probably not."

She chuckled then left Jack's cubicle, to which he shook his head and rested his hands on the back of his neck, stretching for a bit. Monika probably thought that she'd already won whatever imaginary contest she had conjured in her head. It made sense in the spirit of competition, seeing that she was the only one who could pinpoint his Cardiac Sensor's signals. Or whatever it was that the VR thought was a Cardiac Sensor. Would've been nice to square off against her, as the Team often did, but alas he was not in the simulation's Operator Pool for this morning. He had bigger fish to fry.

Recently, the Director had called for a massive upgrade on the Team's security protocols, part of the 'paradigm shift' that she had been doling out for a while now. Jack's job was to help Mark and Meghan, the Team's other intel people, ensure that everyone's electronic files were protected. The addition of a dual-phase verification system made it similar to how the Korean Army ran their Cybershield Network. As for the whys and the whats, they didn't matter to him; all he knew was that the fingerprint calibrations had to be accomplished as soon as possible. This explained why he hadn't gotten out of his PT uniform yet.

He opened a bright green folder on his desk. A quick glance on the list of names instantly told him that today was going to be a long one.

"Next?", he called out.

Another woman came in to the sound of squeaky running shoes. A short bob cut, a pale complexion, and both hands in the pockets of her jogging pants. She, too, had just returned from her morning exercise. Her clothes still had patches of sweat, on her back and on her clavicle. It was the same woman he saw during his laps earlier today.

"Good morning.", Jack greeted.

"Yeah, yeah…"

She sat at the chair opposite his desk, walking rather lazily as she went. She was clearly unenthused to do what was asked of her this morning- 'more office hogwash', as perhaps interpreted by her brain.

"…let's get this over with."

Polish, early thirties, ex-PMC, and an extensive military background. She wasn't wearing her trademark cap today, possibly because it was awkward to wear while jogging around the Base. Her hair still had traces of her favorite green dye, but she did a sloppy job of cleaning it off. A good enough hint that she still despised Six for 'asking' her to drop the edgy-teen look. Professionalism's sake, and all that. She's a real piece of work, no doubt, with a whole lot of issues carried by her droopy face. In a single glance, Jack summed up her life. A few years as a biometrics intern was to blame for that compulsion.

"Okay Ela. I just need you to place your right thumb here."

"Is this really necessary? I need to get to the shooting range."

"Sorry, but the boss said-"

"Before 0600 hours. Yes, I already heard."

Stubborn and dismissive; Jack expected her to respond as such. He knew the type quite well. Quite a few Air Force kids he met while growing up also had that streak of independence in them. Oftentimes, it was the older brats, and usually their obstinate character was born from the parents' influence or neglect. The bald man could relate very well either way.

Once again, he held another's hand to the scanner and waited for the beep. The cinch was that Ela's disinterest for the whole thing, a miniscule difference in angle and pressure that caused the device to fail to register her prints. Jack didn't say a word, though, and simply went on the process like normal. Again, and again, and again until the desired output finally came to his computer screen. It was enough to elicit another laugh from the woman, whose smug look was made even more bare.

She was making fun of him.

"You're such a… whatdidMeghansayagain … a 'Boy Scout', you know that?"

"Afraid not. Didn't even join the Cadets."

The proper term was 'Civil Air Patrol', but Jack thought 'cadets' was more familiar to a foreigner's ears. Then again, perhaps this chick didn't really understand what 'Boy Scout' meant either.

"Heh. Let me guess, mommy didn't want your feelings to get hurt?"

"Beg your pardon?"

"You're sullen, quiet… You don't strike me as a fighter."

"Looks can be deceiving."

"Care to prove that on the range?"

Ela finished her sentence with a mocking tone, causing the bald man to raise an eyebrow. She seemed keen on picking on him, or anyone really, just to pass the time and be cut loose from this rubbish. Blatant disregard for authority and an rebellious streak- her psych profile sure didn't lie one bit. If he was younger, Jack would've started to feel his patience wear thin at this point, seeing that the teasing was deliberate. But he knew better. He had been to so many places, met and left behind dozens of families, to know how to deal with such pressure. The best way to do that was to be on the level. Honesty, as good ol' dad taught him once.

"Actually, my mom _wanted_ me to join the Cadets.", he started. "Builds character, she said... But she didn't want me in the military. My dad didn't it take well."

"Ooooh. Another 'big happy family', huh?", Ela gave a conceited comment.

"Well, we _did_ have a lot of good times…"

He leaned back on his seat.

"…Christmases were fun, Thanksgivings, birthdays... Dad often woke me up every Saturday morning so that we can jog."

"That's nothing special."

"Well, that's the Air Force for you."

The statement caught her off guard for a while.

"Wait. Your father's a soldier too?"

"Yup. Tech Sergeant. Mom's an Intel Officer... Been that way for as long as I can remember, no matter what base we're posted on…"

The smug look on the Polish girl's face was quickly replaced with genuine curiosity. The change of topic worked well, even though Jack felt a bit guilty tugging strings just to get her off his back. But he needed some venting to do. It had been far too long that he spilled a slice of his life's story to a stranger. In a way, this was a small victory over her as well.

"…My folks didn't get along on many things. So yeah, you can say we're a 'big happy family'."

"They fought a lot?"

"Bickered, more like. Never physical, I'll give them that much. But it grew toxic enough that my parents had to split…"

The tone in his voice became much more somber, designed to elicit sympathy from any person, no matter how stubborn or abrasive they were. Judging by Ela's expression, it was working. One more victory for the bald man to boast. It would be rotten to manipulate people's feelings this way, but the girl needed to learn her place.

Or was it the real reason? All that Jack wanted was to get this part of the day as quickly as he could. There were plenty of things that needed his attention, and this little sideshow was not helping at all. And just like that, he realized that he had been acting the same way as this girl and Monika, in his own stoic, nondescript manner. Impatience was building up and he didn't know it. Perhaps it was a subconscious attempt for his mind to find something more… 'consistent'. Stability from a childhood defined by constant reassignments and relocations, often not knowing what the future held. A sense of permanence, now that he had a good thing going in England.

Only time could tell if he had been doing good job so far. Something to make his folks proud, wherever they might be.

"…Eventually my mom got custody of me. I started taking after her more.", Jack ended his story. "It's why my last name isn't Peterson."

"…"

"But I never forget what my dad taught me. Discipline, and all that."

"Yeah… I know how that is…"

Ela all but dropped the air of mischief in her behavior, glancing her eyes to the side and avoiding contact with his. For the moment, she was a manageable subject, which was all that an FBI agent needed to get his job done. Even if he was ex-FBI. Old habits die hard, just like that bit with the morning jog.

"Family, am I right?"

"Hmph.", she scoffed.

With the biometrics logged and recorded, it was time to move to the next person. Jack smiled at the woman, telling her that her time was up and she should free up the chair for another Operator. She obliged with a small grin of her own, then reverted to her usual 'edgy' self, hands in the pockets and all. Such an intriguing character, like that one girl he met all those years ago. Ela would've been a microcosm of his life if things turned out differently. The past is past, unfortunately. The present demanded greater attention.

The man looked at the bright green folder on his desk again…

 _Dang, I almost forgot…_

He saw one little detail that Ela would like to hear.

"Speaking of which, I heard we got another new blood coming here today.", Jack called to her. "Should be arriving in a few hours."

"Huh?"

Behind his glasses, he gave her his own brand of an impish smile.

"Your sister."

...

* * *

 **Author's Comments/Notes:** In this bit, I wanted to explore Pulse's past as a military brat of divorced parents. Moving from one Air Force base after the other might have made it hard for him to form attachments with people, which is perhaps the reason for his obsession with analyzing human behavior. He doesn't strike me as someone who mopes over his parents' divorce, though, so I got rid of the angst. Also, I wanted to delve into Team Rainbow's day-to-day routine, which doesn't always involve shooting and training in the original Tom Clancy novel.

As you might have inferred, the next chapter will be about Zofia. Please look forward to it!


	5. Chapter 5 - Zofia

**.**

* * *

 **Zofia "Zo" Bosak**

* * *

...

A woman, a man, and a toddler in the latter's arms. The cab dropped them off near the sidewalk, just outside of the perimeter fence, no doubt following some unspoken military protocol. The entrance to the base itself was only a short walk away; presumably civilians were not allowed even a hair's breadth. Good thing that the term no longer applied to the family of three. Or more specifically, to the mother with the short brown hair, wearing a camouflaged uniform, bearing the patch of an eagle clutching a lightning bolt. A bright green ID was pinned to her left chest pocket, telling any British soldier who she was.

Zofia took a second to absorb the fresh air, the warm scent of beech and oak, all matched by the warmth of the morning sun. She felt the old pocketwatch tucked into her shirt, feeling it tick, as a way to calm herself. Barely three months had passed since she last saw action, and she was about jump into an even bigger fire. It was way past the point of no return, but she did not mind. New country, new life.

" _Pamietaj_ (Don't forget)...", she spoke to her husband. "… _Jestes w Anglii, mówisz po angielsku_ (You're in England now, so speak English)."

"You got it, mum."

"Do you mean 'mom' or 'ma'am'?"

"With you, what's the difference?", he smiled at her.

Such a smart aleck remark, worthy of a light jab to the shoulder. Then again, speaking a familiar language wouldn't hide that they're foreigners, no thanks to their Slavic accents. Her man looked rather rugged in his collared polo and jeans, hiding his own military background. She bid him to keep their baby girl firmly in his hands, while she gripped two gym bags in either hand. And thus, they started the brief trek to the gates of RAF Credenhill, Herefordshire. 'Hereford Base', as it was known colloquially. Per the briefing with the Interior Minister, this place was also the headquarters of the UN/NATO Rainbow Program, unknown to all save for the highest levels of government.

Somewhere inside the complex was a woman she wanted to meet. They had a lot of catching up to do.

Everything went by the manual. The woman walked to a couple of armed guards and showed them her ID, to which they called the base commander for authentication and clearance. It was registered as 'Zofia Bosak'; insisting on her maiden name was a security measure to protect both her husband and their child's identities. After a few seconds, the guards let the trio go through the reinforced gates, opening with a metallic creak. The first thing that caught their eyes was the magnificent courtyard, built from English-style mortar and red bricks. It was flanked by two vintage airplanes: they looked like genuine RAF Spitfires. The little girl in the husband's arms cooed at the sight.

"Looks like she wants one, Zo.", he smirked.

"*giggles* I'll keep that in mind when she turns eighteen."

The skyline was dominated by the famous SAS clock tower, not at all different from the Land Forces Academy in Wroclaw where she studied. The family of three were definitely far from home now, what with the bizarre architecture and the musk in the air. The base might look like a heritage site, but the mother knew better. This was her new posting, not another vacation home. She was to be her government's contribution to a clandestine group of soldiers, no doubt delving in all manner of wet work that she was more than familiar with. Double the risks, and hopefully double the reward. Something that would honor her Father...

She shook her head. That wasn't the reason she was here. She pushed for this job because of one individual- blood being thicker than water. Truth be told, Zofia did not really care much about the benefits that the Rainbow Program offered- her family was more important. Part of the deal she made with the Director was for her husband to be reassigned at the UN liaison post here, as his soldiering days were already well behind him. Their baby girl, meanwhile, would be at the daycare in town; schooling could be discussed at a later time. Both of them would be outside of the Base's perimeter though, a sign of concern for any mother, but Hereford was one of the safest places in England. At least, that's what that black woman claimed when they met in Geneva. As such, Zofia could focus on more important matters.

One of which was about to come to light, sooner than she thought.

"Uh oh…"

"Something wrong?", she asked her husband.

His eyes were trained at the far end of the courtyard, prompting her to follow suit. The door had been swung ajar.

"Is that…?"

Two people were headed their way, both wearing black shirts and patterned camos. One was a short-haired blonde woman whose broad arms were covered in all manner of inky art. The other was wearing a baseball cap, with brown tresses of her hair dangling on either side of her face. Brown, and not the bright green dye she was fond of. It's definitely her.

"…Ela!", waved the man.

She didn't bother to respond. Her companion looked at her incredulously, as if nudging her to repay the courtesy. That didn't work either, and she simply pressed on. Her dull eyes only brightened on the sight of the toddler. Albeit for a moment.

" _Przywitaj się z ciotką!_ " ("Say hi to your auntie!")

He bid the little girl to greet Ela, but she only stared at her, silently. Then, she turned away and hugged her dad instead, after a slight whimper. _Ciocia Elżbieta_ was still a stranger as far as she was concerned. Zofia tried to make eye contact as well, but she too was turned down by the cap-wearing woman.

"Ma'am.", the blonde soldier spoke.

"Lieutenant."

"I'm afraid ranks don't mean squat in these parts. We're here to take you to the Director's Office; Six's already waitin' for you."

So that was her name: Six; a quick mental note was pinned to her head. So far, this little meet-and-greet was right on schedule. Zofia shook hands with the other woman, as old acquaintances should. Clearly it shouldn't be a surprise to see Meghan Castellano here, the SEAL Team Six's liaison during Operation Orange Sky, which GROM Squadron C was proud to be part of. Ela was the point woman in that undercover mission, the American ran intel and comms. Seeing the latter to be part of Rainbow, it suddenly made more sense why the Bosak Tempest herself signed her discharge papers all those months ago. The older sister supposed that she should've seen the writing on the wall.

This impromptu reunion was a cue for the husband to excuse himself and head to the reception area, his toddler wrapped around his arms. Almost immediately, the little girl came on the verge of tears, as she was about to be separated from her mom. Thinking on his feet, her dad quickly distracted her by showing her again the Spitfires in the courtyard. She cooed all the same for the second time, enough to occupy her while her mother's friends disappeared from view. Even the brawny Castellano couldn't help but smirk at the family.

"Cute kid. Hubby seems like a great guy too."

"I know.", Zofia gave one of her rare, genuine smiles. "I'm proud of him."

"Let's not waste any more time. Shall we?"

…

New digs. The trip to the Director's Office was also a chance for a quick tour of the place that Zofia would be calling home for the next few years. She was impressed; to say that Hereford Base was an 'expansive' military installation would be an understatement. It consisted of multiple buildings and hangars, each with their own designations, certainly much larger than how the older GROM guys described it in their time. The British Royal Air Force was still here, plus a handful of Special Air Service troops. Two hundred men give or take, at the most, to say nothing of the special 'Operators' who've also taken up residence. _They_ were the real attraction; as they had their very own Complex near one of the runways: a multi-story twin building with its own barracks, cantina, and armory. It also came with a refurbished Kill House just across the courtyard, which Castellano said was the most recent addition. And as incredulous as it sounded, the unit was still on a recruitment drive, so a few more improvements were bound to come in the future.

Strangely enough, Ela barely spoke a word throughout the entire walk. The urge to break the ice with her was strong, but Zofia couldn't bring herself to it. Like she sensed a barrier suddenly appearing between her and her little sister. The former was starting to get anxious. Was it wrong not to tell her that she was coming? Their last fieldwork ended on a relatively positive note, disregarding the brushes with death they both faced. This concern would have to be shelved for later.

The little entourage was now on the ground floor of Rainbow's own private pad, walls and floors colored in a drab olive and beige. Standard procedures still applied: Zofia approached the front desk, registered on the clerk's logbook, then stowed away the two bags she had been clutching. Just past the automated security doors, which also recognized her ID, was the indoor gym and training area, separated from the hall with thick reinforced glass. It looked well-stocked with the right workout gear and equipment; it looked like a good place to chill out and make new friends with her coworkers. And speaking of which, a lot of them were quite into fitness as well, judging from their numbers.

Peering across the large panes of glass, Zofia saw her teammates in action. A bunch of people were huddled around a large set of fighting mats, where a red-haired girl and a hulking, mean-looking fellow were squaring off with each other using knives. Dangerous stuff. Their spectators mostly consisted of brawny men and athletic-looking women, all wearing the same black uniforms and fatigues. _Women_. This came as a mild surprise to the ex-GROM commando, who had scarcely seen such a high proportion of females in a military unit. Excluding her own squadron, of course.

"You have this many girls mingling with the boys?", she asked the American.

"We started out with three, believe it or not. The Director kept recruiting; turns out some of the best folks in the CT business have boobs."

"But a mixed roster... I'm surprised nobody's gotten pregnant yet."

The blonde woman turned around with a sheepish grin.

"Why? Speaking from personal experience, ma'am?"

Zofia fell silent, barely holding back a stifled giggle. To her chagrin, her head was soon flooded with awkward, yet happy memories that made her relate to Castellano's remark. A war-torn village in the dead of night, a handsome soldier she nearly killed, a few beers with him back at base, the start of a budding friendship, a bed and a heartfelt kiss, a baby-bump many months later…

"None of your business.", she turned her down.

Castellano laughed at her while they pressed on. This was Ela's chance to join in their little brand of girl talk. The older sister anticipated it- a condescending remark or a crude in-joke would do. Anything just that would resemble a reaction from her. Alas, it didn't come. From the corner of her eyes, Zo could see her sibling stubbornly refusing to budge, not granting her neither a peep nor a glance. Her back was turned and her arms were crossed while her legs moved forwards, as if she was stating that she didn't want to be in the same distance as hers.

Such a drastic demeanor. Just like back home. Just like with Father. Just like in the Academy. Quaint little memories came to mind- first was winter in Wroclaw, Ela was an art student in Berlin back then. But from the way she carried herself during her scarce visits, she would fit right in with the boys. Zofia hoped that she would join him in the Army when she got older, maybe ditch her bachelor's degree for a chance to rebuild the Bosak legacy together. And in Korea, almost three months ago, Ela tried her damnedest to rescue her and her team from impending death, fighting like a devil against scores of bad guys. Stoic and sturdy, with a strong desire to keep her sister safe no matter what. Today, it seemed like the other woman couldn't be asked to even stay in her presence.

*Ring! Ring!*

Castellano reached on her back pocket and pulled out her cell. A quick glance at the screen, the sunny disposition of her face quickly turned into a frown.

"Ah crap, I'm needed back at the Ops Center… Ela, can you take over?"

She was surprised to hear that, judging from her widened eyes. But before she could protest the decision, her friend had already made her way towards a different hallway, slowly disappearing from view.

This was Zofia's chance. She stood there, staring at her own flesh and blood, forming a quaint little smile on her lips and try to strike up a conversation for the umpteenth time. And similar to before, Ela ignored her latest attempt to bond. She took Castellano's order to heart, and continued the trek across the hallway and reach the elevator down the hall, their destination was only a couple of floors above them. The sooner it was done the better- no doubt the message being told by her brain.

"Ela…"

"…"

No response, as always. The older sister had just about enough of her stubbornness. Time to switch back to her mother tongue, show to her that she wasn't going to let up.

"Ela. _Możemy pogadać_ (Can we talk)?"

Zofia she reached out to grab her by the shoulder. It was a mistake. Her fingers were just a hair's breadth to the Ela's sleeve, when the latter suddenly spun around and deflected the outstretched arm, as she would with a punch. Fast, forceful, and physical. Like a counter-attack to a perceived attempt on her life. It was a reflex, no doubt the result of her GROM training.

"Hey! What's wrong with you!?"

She looked into Ela's eyes. They were lively and fierce. Rage. Her disposition matched her body language, which had already changed into a fighting stance, catching Zofia by surprise. Before she could tell her to stop, the younger sibling lunged to manhandle her. There was no escaping this woman's speed and tenacity, embodying the symbol of their mother unit. She pushed her into a wall and brought a forearm up to her neck, locking her in place. Just like that, the older Bosak was subdued. Or at least, that's where she wanted her to be.

Face-to-face with a former comrade. 'Former' might be a strong word, but that was how Ela showed herself. Zofia gritted her teeth, all the while triying to make sense of her sister's hostile behavior. But she didn't waver. She saw this as her chance. To make up for lost time. To explain themselves to each other. There was a time when their bond was indestructible. She thought she'd seen it on their last time in the field together, fighting side-by-side. That seemed like a distant, idealized memory in hindsight, seeing how they're literally at each other's throats all over again.

…

"Why are you here!?", Ela hissed.

"Someone has to keep an eye on you."

The response soured the mood even more. Of course it would, considering that she never told her little sister that she was joining Team Rainbow as well. If the guys on the gym could turn around to look, they would be horrified at the altercation taking place just a few feet behind them. Zofia realized that she needed to end this as soon as possible. Nobody should see the two scions of a once-great solider at their worst. Nobody, let alone the husband and the little girl who were just in the adjacent building.

"I don't take orders from you anymore, Zo!"

"I'm not here to boss you around, Ela. Can we just ta-"

"Then _leave_!", she cut her off. "...I don't need anyone watching my back!"

"Hmph, you sure about that? Your guard is down."

For a split-second, Ela glanced to her feet. The distraction worked. Zofia seized the chance to wring herself free from her sister's grasp, clutching the latter's arm in the process and turning as leverage. With her superior commando training, she forced the other woman into the ground, clutching her into an armbar, showcasing the same strength and swiftness used a few seconds ago. The younger woman grunted and struggled, but she didn't waver either. It was an impressive feat on her part, despite the futility of her defiance.

"Let's stop this, Ela! If Father can see us now, he will-"

"Don't you DARE bring Him up!"

She forced herself from her sister's grasp, who in turn held her hands up to signal the end for all this nonsense. Ela brushed off the dirt from her sleeves and fixed her cap, right before giving Zofia a discontented glare. The latter, in turn, looked on with a mix of frustration and confusion. In just a few seconds, they were both back to their old selves. Like children. Unprofessional behavior on both counts, but blood's thicker than water.

This wasn't the kind of meeting that Zofia had in mind. She thought their distance from each other for months would cause her little sis to mellow. Clearly, that didn't happen. If anything, she still held her former commanding officer in disdain. Contempt for all those things that happened in the family. With their Father. Such a bitter memory to both women to recollect, and they consciously steered their minds away from it.

" _Zrób mi przysługę_ (Do me a favor)…", Ela spoke.

"Huh?"

She turned her back once again, then started to walk.

"… _nie mów do mnie_ (Don't talk to me)."

Her words were as rude and harsh like the scuffle they both detached themselves from. Only this time, just one of them opted to end it with words rather than force. Looking on as her sister receded from view, Zofia took a deep breath, realizing that she had her work cut out for her. Not only would she have to worry about her own family in Hereford, she also had her beef with Ela to contend with. A familial friction she thought they both had grown out long ago. Needless to say, Team Rainbow was her little sister's chance to start fresh and set out on her own, only for Zo to ruin everything. To say this wasn't the latter's intention from the get-go, at least in part, would be a great disservice.

She let out a heavy sigh as she cleaned herself up, then checked if her pocketwatch was still in order. It would be no good for Director Six to see her slightly-disheveled. With her escorts gone and with no other soul in sight, She resolved to finish the trek to the Director's Office on her own. There was a lot of things to discuss with that woman, more so now that she knew 'family life' had just gotten a lot more complicated. More parameters, more stipulations occupied her head as she walked towards the elevator down the hall. New country, new life. The phrase rang hollow the more she repeated it on her head...

...

"Oh my God!", someone yelled. "Medic!"

Zofia looked behind her and darted to the direction of the noise. It sounded like it came from the gym, which she passed by earlier. There was a commotion coming from the other side of the glass.

"Lera, you alright?"

"Someone get Doc down here!"

She saw the spectators huddled around the fighting mat. One could barely the source of the ruckus, but a glimpse could be made by squinting a bit. There was a red-haired woman, lithe yet strong-looking, who was down on the floor, wincing in pain. Her face had a nasty gash, a stream of bright red trickled down to her chin like a river. Her opponent was standing nearby, stunned and slack-jawed, with a bloody knife firmly held by his right hand…

…

* * *

 **Author's Comments/Notes:** I decided to add a few details from the original Tom Clancy novel here. In it, the families of Team Rainbow are all sent to Hereford to work/study there, both for security purposes and to make quality time with the Operators that much easier (this came back to bite them, but I digress). I'm under the impression that the husband is also a Polish soldier, hence I made up his new posting as a liaison officer, though I don't really know why Zofia hasn't taken up his surname as her own. I touched her rivalry with Ela only briefly, though, because I think that bit is worthy of its own story or chapter.

Up next, Kapkan!


	6. Chapter 6 - Kapkan

**.**

* * *

 **Maxim "Kapkan" Basuda**

* * *

…

"Medic!"

"Lera, you alright?!"

It was an accident. Everyone was worried about her, as they rightfully should. Everyone, except the man who put her down. He expected her to have the stones of a soldier; otherwise she wouldn't have a reason to be here, so far away from home.

Once again, Max's knife flourishes had been a tad too strong, wounding yet another comrade. Whatever guilt he felt in the act, however, quickly gave way to anticipation and morbid curiosity. His shocked expression slowly became much more subdued. Valeria Melnikova was a greenhorn last time he'd trained with her- a doe-eyed, spirited kid eager to serve her country, like he was back in the day. Did she finally change? Did she take to heart everything he'd taught her all those years? His eyes maintained a low scowl, as they observed the erstwhile newbie get back on her feet.

'Newbie'. She didn't even have a fancy name to call herself with.

As callous as it sounded, this was a great lesson for her. An accident turned into an opportunity. She needed to know what Team Rainbow was all about, that it was a whole different level than their old unit in the FSB. The stakes were even greater, the enemies even more merciless. She would be facing psychos who would use the most callous methods to win. She would be fighting indiscriminate killers who wouldn't hold anyone sacred, women and children included. To beat them would require a similar level of tenacity. The kind that wouldn't balk at the prospect of knifing someone to death or planting a devious IED, if either meant saving a life.

At the very least, she did not have to learn this lesson the hard way, unlike how Max did as a young man. There she was, on the ground and grunting in pain, as blood continued to flow from the gash across her forehead. It was a far better prospect than residing an ICU, waiting for surgery from an AK round. The cut was not as bad as it looked, but that was no small comfort to the bundle of nerves on her face. Slowly, Lera brought herself up on all fours, all the while huffing heavily and fighting off the urge to let a single tear escape her eyelids.

"Someone get Doc down here!"

A few of the spectators went out of the training room to search for the Team's medic, presumably off doing his business in the infirmary this early in the day. The rest remained where they stood, gawking, as they waited for the knife-wielding instructor to call the whole sparring match off. But Max refrained, insisting instead to play the observer. In turn, a few pairs of eyes glared it him rather accusingly, seemingly to prove his cold-hearted nature to all. It took a different kind of person to remain undaunted by the sight of a wounded friend.

Seconds later, the whole room gasped in shock, seeing Lera slowly muster the strength to stand upright. Her eyes were not moist with tears. Her fists were clearly clenched. The blood was marring her vision, but she nonetheless turned to look at her sparring partner, who was all the more impressed by her grit. She trudged forwards, as if to have a word with him. Or perhaps to shake his hand. None of that mattered to Max: at last, she finally proved herself a warrior. He reached out with a slight grin on his face, relishing the success of his rather unorthodox tutelage. No doubt she would be a fine addition to the Team.

This was a moment that any teacher could only dream of. A moment that-

*Smack!*

He didn't see the haymaker that came from her right hand. Max was briefly startled by the attack, then reared to block his head with his fists out of instinct. It was an error. He left his torso open, which Lera saw as another prime opportunity. The wounded woman lunged at the brawny Russian with rapid fire fists, causing the latter to wince in pain. He felt a couple more jabs connect to his chest, more painful than he anticipated. Then, she went for his nose, giving it a solid bone-crunching hit. All of this in less than ten seconds; it was his turn to be down for the count. It was his turn to bleed.

She was filled with rage. Max took it as another good sign.

"Lera! Knock it off!"

"Break 'em up! Break 'em up!"

Within a few heartbeats, the unfortunate sparring accident had devolved into a two-man brawl. Everyone rushed into action, heedless of protocol, as they tried to stop either one of the fighters from getting seriously hurt. What happened next was a blur: pain, confusion, and surprise. 'Stupid, stupid man', Max derided himself. His body reeled from punch after punch, as his consciousness started to drift away into the dark yonder. It was such an embarrassing way to go, causing him to scoff un-ironically. He thought he would never be this careless again, but life had a wicked sense of humor.

Amidst the scuffle around him, he saw a knife, lying dormant on the mat. The redhead dropped it when she tackled him.

…

* * *

…

"Some fractures to the ribcage… mild swelling in the coastal cartilages… upper nasal bone is also broken."

Gustave droned on while he applied bandages to Max's chest and nose. The overhead lamp on the infirmary shone brightly, which was quite blinding to the bed-ridden man. But that was a minor inconvenience compared to the pain of being strapped onto a rough, thin-cushioned gurney. And it was not just the indignity of the 'training accident' that bothered him; Mike Baker was in his periphery, giving him a disapproving gaze, standing just beside the good doctor. The black uniform and English-style coat made him look like a foul-tempered geezer, more so than usual.

"Hmph. That all, Doc?"

"I'd say these are serious injuries, Thatcher …But I suppose the SAS would just call this a 'flesh wound'."

"Hehehe...", Max laughed.

"This is not a sitcom, ya twit. I said to use practice knives with her. It's the woman's first week for God's sake!"

" _Da_. But not her first time against me. And here I thought you've read her dossier..."

"That's not the bloody point! I've half a mind to report this to Six. She wanted no accidents!"

"Tch. Just do what you have to, _dedka_ (gramps)."

Baker glared at his insolence, then left the infirmary with an imperious stride, firmly closing the door behind him. Of course he would report what happened to their esteemed Director, as was his unspoken responsibility. That would only mean one thing: another written reprimand sent to Max's cubicle sometime this week. Another one in a handful, which he unfortunately accumulated throughout his career in Rainbow thus far. It didn't matter. It _would have_ if he was still the eager go-getter of his youth. Maybe he would try to get the memo revoked back then. Unfortunately, that young man had grown up a long, long time ago. As he should.

Flat on his back and reeling in pain on his chest and face, Max raised his head to gaze down at his latest batch of wounds. They were completely covered by straps of white, sterilized medical gauze, with the appropriate ointment and dressings already applied. They had no tinge of red in them, all thanks to Gustave's efficient handiwork and miraculous fingers. The good doctor was still cutting away at the bandages, careful not to further disturb the man's injuries and draw blood. After a couple of months or so, a fresher set of scars would adore the Russian's muscular chest, joining a canvass that perfectly illustrated the storied and incredibly turbulent life that he had led so far.

Burn marks across his sternum from a welding accident working at a factory in Kovrov. A vicious-looking claw mark from a polar bear, a danger of hunting alone in the Arctic. A gunshot wound to the chest and a few bits of shrapnel lodged into his left hip, a souvenir from his nightmare in Beslan. And those was just the scars he could see without a mirror's help. Each blemish pointed to a strong and resilient survivor- a trait that any hunter worth his salt was supposed to have.

"How are you feeling, Maxim?"

"Sleepy… stiff…", he replied in his typical drawl. "…What's gotten to the Old Man, huh?"

"*scoffs* He had an argument with Olivier in the Ops Room this morning. If Meghan didn't step in, those two would've punched each other."

Gustave was referring to Lera's partner in crime, a pompous little punk. Many of the recruits had been stirring up trouble recently, as colorful personalities tend to leave their mark. Thankfully, this was something that could easily be fixed with a stricter combat training regimen. Max now had an excuse to whip them all into shape, and he'd already made a few mental notes on which poor sap who would suffer in his midst first.

He smiled to himself. He had been a recruit once. He went through the toughest physical and mental training that the FSB could dish out. He barely survived the cut- a one-out-of-ten type of luck. After a hundred hours in Siberia and thousands of rounds fired, everyone else looked like a sissy. A weakling. And yet this time, he's the one in the infirmary, reeling from wounds he got fighting a _doctor._ If his old platoon Sergeant were here right now, a loud earful of demotivating words would be the least of his worries.

"Damn new bloods…", he sighed. "…Tough luck for us eh?"

"Hmm… A brave new world, certainly."

"I'd like to drink to that."

"Hey, no funny ideas. I'm not yet finished with you."

Gustave held a pair of shears between his white-gloved fingers, then cut another strip of gauze and placed it on the other man's nose. The bleeding from his nostrils had stopped a few hours ago, where a pair of cotton balls used to be.

"There. Done."

" _Spasibo_ (Thank you)", he grunted as he slowly got himself out from bed. Naturally, the doctor made his disappointment known.

"Max, you should stay in bed!", he raised his voice. "Do you want your ribs to get worse?"

"Relax. Just one swig. Now, where did you hide your whiskey…"

With a hand clutching his sore, injured ribs, Max trudged his way across the small room in search for something that would quench his parched throat. He wasn't joking about the whiskey either; he needed a warm and bitter beverage to take his mind away from the pain. As much as he liked to play up the tough guy-persona, it was ultimately futile for him to hide from reality. Analgesics would only dull his senses, make him weaker in the long run. Ironically, Lera was quite well-versed in pain management; she should be handing him pointers right now, if she was only up and about.

Life definitely had a sick sense of humor.

The Russian opened up one of Gustave's medical cabinets, rummaging to find a half-empty, unlabeled bottle of spirits. The crude, old school way for doctors to dull the agony of the most grievous wounds. Max removed the slightly-loose top cap with his teeth, then spat it out in a nonchalant manner, before tipping the warm bottle on his lips, bottom-up. He felt a brief surge of elation, helping him cope with his current predicament. Gus, on the other hand, could do nothing but stare in silence and shake his head a second time. At this point, it was futile to tell a former Spetsnaz soldier what to do. Rather than go into a tirade about proper medical procedures, he changed the topic instead to something more pressing. He also wanted to satisfy his own curiosity, as it seemed.

"Care to tell me what went down back there?"

Max set the bottle down and looked back, rather confused.

"Nobody told you?"

"Tina said you slashed Lera's face by accident. Then, you let her tackle you and beat you to a pulp…"

Max glared back with half-hearted menace, letting his displeasure known to Gustave. Another woman had just slighted him by telling a horribly inaccurate story, whether in jest or not. Either way, it was one method to discredit his reputation as a vicious fighter. Or maybe it was just her ploy to get back on him for all those times he made her tap out in the fighting mat? Max made yet another mental note to seek out that slant-eyed Vancouverite once he got out from the infirmary. He now had even more reason to empty the bottle in his hand. Down the hatches, the liquid went.

" _…_ I think she's exaggerating.", the doctor continued. "Still, if you've been careful, I wouldn't be here wasting my time."

Before the Russian could verbally defend himself, the other man went over to another spot in the infirmary, covered in a drab medical curtain. Peeling it aside, Max saw Lera's slumbering form. Her bed was just a short distance from his, all this time. But unlike him, the redhead with the stupid crewcut was still unconscious, probably kept sedated by the IV hanging beside. Her ivory-white training shirt was gone, replaced by a tanktop that was also covered in splotches of red. It seemed that she lost a great deal of blood from that wound. Just as before, concern and worry went out of the window. The Russian was satisfied to know that she was alright.

"She passed out from the pain; probably exacerbated by muscle fatigue and stress… She was throwing up when they brought her here."

"Hmph. Doesn't look that bad to me. Just bandage the wound and she'll be fine…"

"Fortunately, we do not follow your old unit's medical protocols. We're _civilized_ here."

"Pfft. She'll live. That's all that matters."

"How could you say that?!", Gustave frowned at him. "Isn't she your friend?"

No. She was a student, Max said in his head. The next generation of a proud military tradition, who went out of her way to defy the odds and become stronger. She was a fighter. They were all fighters. As if the FSB wasn't bad enough, Max and his comrades signed up for a much more dangerous job. And while she suffered dearly for her initiation, the red-haired doctor did a great at giving him a thrashing he wouldn't soon forget. Nobody should expect anything less. The world had always been harsh on them; it's expected for the Spetsnaz to be just as severe.

At any rate, Max could rest easy knowing that his student had developed the same grit that took him years to build. Resilience and strength. Still had quite a ways to go, that much was certain, though at least she's already on the right path.

And that's when Max realized that he needed to do more. He was getting rusty. What was it that did him in today? Carelessness? Overconfidence? It would be very bad if he was lapsing back to the same old weaknesses of his youth. The same reasons why his 25-year-old self nearly died in Beslan. Today was just a sparring match, and yet he was already down for the count against one opponent. How would he fare against five or ten, all at once? And judging by current events, especially what happened in America recently, the odds would always be against him, no matter where he would go. Such was the reality of Team Rainbow, he reminded himself a second time.

"You'll lead a charmed life to not underestimate us, _moy droog_ (my friend)."

"Uh-huh."

"Trust me. She'll be fine."

Max sounded so sure of himself with those words, but they were really only to shield his reputation. He's supposed to be one of the Team's toughest. This little incident at the training room should not be construed as him getting rusty. If he was, then a little self-evaluation should be in order. Another reason to spend more time in weapons training and close quarter drills, keep his edge as sharp as it could be. He needed to be faster and more precise; there's no use holding his own anymore by standing still. And he wasn't getting any younger either.

But that train of thought could be continued for later, as he felt the pain in his chest surge again. Scoffing at the poor woman for the last time, Max turned around and went back to his bed, knowing that he had to follow the good doctor's orders. As he laid himself down, he looked back in his mind on what happened in thd fighting mat. Swallowing his pride for once, he admitted that he still had his own weaknesses to contend with. Mistakes had been made, noted, and sworn never to be repeated. If he failed as a fighter and teacher, he would only be a liability to the rest of his comrades. That would be unacceptable. That would also shame Lera, whose determination should be repaid in kind. The poor girl went all out against him this morning. Swift, sharp, and unexpected.

Like a knife.

A knife…

…

"Finka…"

"Pardon?", Gustave raised an eyebrow.

"Finka… That's her new name."

If the girl wanted to fit right in with the rest of Rainbow, then she needed her own moniker. It sounded cheesy: a weapon for gangsters and thieves, when she's clearly from an upstanding background. And the good thing about her being knocked out and in bed, it meant she had no say on the matter. All in good fun and mutual respect, of course.

"Tell her that when she wakes up, will you?"

"Hmph. Sounds like you're picking another fight with her."

"Bring it on.", Max proclaimed with pride. "I do not mind a rematch."

He closed his eyes, waiting to drift himself to sleep. He smiled all the way, knowing that his job was getting started.

…

* * *

 **Author's Comments/Notes:** Happy New Year everyone! The Holidays forced this on the back-burner for a while, so apologies for that. Anyway, we all know that Kapkan is responsible for Finka's scar, but I'm not really sure when that fateful accident happened. Finka's bio says it occurred during their service in the Russian military, but all the official artwork show it happened during their time in Rainbow. I decided to go for the latter since it fits my story better.

Echo's chapter is coming up next!


	7. Chapter 7 - Echo

**Foreword:** I want to give a huge shout-out to Kharn, whose idea was an inspiration for Echo's chapter. If you're reading this, I also like to apologize since I didn't exactly push through with the characters you suggested. :(

* * *

 **Masaru "Echo" Enatsu**

* * *

…

 _Koin ya no gotoshi._ 'Time flies like an arrow'. That proverb would be a great answer as to why Hereford had gotten so very busy as of late, in a short span. It'd been days since that freak accident in the training room between Max and that funky-haired chick. Then in another exercise the day after, a brawl erupted among some of the guys, allegedly after one of the newbies said something stupid that the Old Man didn't like. The mood was still rather gloomy at the Ops Room as a result; what happened back then was still fresh in everyone's minds. But Masaru was not one of them, unsurprisingly. Or not, depending on anyone's perspective.

Meghan Castellano wanted to move on, which was partly the reason why she called the Team for a meeting today. There she stood by the projected screen, in front of a small mass of seated people, doing her best not to look _too_ crossed.

"…Some of us aren't here today, so _I hope_ someone will give them a heads-up when they return tomorrow…", she lectured. "…I suppose we can still do that, yeah? Get along for five frigging minutes?!"

"…"

"Thought so… Alright, let's get started. First order of business will be…"

Where was Masa-san when it all went down? At the workshop tinkering with his toys of course. His ignorance was his own fault, but he didn't mind. In fact, he was _glad_ he missed out on all the drama. Distractions, the lot of them. Even now, he'd rather be back on the workbench than spending his waking hours at the Op Room's briefing area. Here, in this jam-packed chamber, was basically everyone who wore a black shirt and combat fatigues. So many faces and voices, many of those with names that he himself couldn't remember. The meeting went underway, with the resident intel officer doing the talking. Naturally, Masaru doodled in his notebook, pretending to be jotting down important points. Sitting at the back of the room also had its benefits.

"Oi!", Yumiko whispered and bumped his foot with hers. " _Nani yattenda_ (What the heck are you doing)!?"

It was a rough sketch of Yokai Mk.2. An autonomous robot, rather than remotely-controlled. It was boredom at its finest, as the hundreds of other drawings in the small, spiral-bound blue book could attest.

"Shhh! _Shizukani_ (Be quiet)."

For most people, he was being childish. To that, he would say most people didn't fully understand the value of a little something called 'time management': the one thing that made clever laziness more science than horseplay. The minutes he spent listening to some speech were better off spent conceptualizing the prototype of Rainbow's newest gadget. Or at least a mockup of it.

But Yumiko continued to pester him. She bumped her foot into him a second time, enough to rudely get his attention. She then motioned to the screen near the podium, where Meghan was giving a rundown on new assignments and timetables. Flashed in front for all the Operators to see was a map of some unknown, mountainous location, with words written in French. Or at least that's what he thought; Masa couldn't always tell, he never paid attention to the minutiae. He had already missed a good chunk of what the blonde woman was talking about but, again, he didn't care.

"…at Kasbah Sehkra Mania, 0800 sharp.", Meghan continued to speak. "We've been told that the Royal Gendarmerie is shorthanded thanks to, umm, current events. So until their Op concludes, the duty roster's gonna be in-house once we get there…"

She then brought out a clipboard from her desk, then started to sift through the papers that were attached to it.

"…First off: Specialist Mallory. He's agreed to play rangemaster for the whole 30 days… let's just hope he doesn't break his damn legs _again_ …"

A few of people in the room laughed.

"…Specialists Chandar and Brunsmeier will be on the intelligence staff, rotation from E-Day plus 1 to 15… Then it'll be myself and Ela for the rest our stay… Specialist Pichon will cover logistics and inventory from 1 to 15, then it will be Streicher's turn... Let's see, who else is on the list…"

More management-hogwash; the woman was talking nonsense as far as Masaru was concerned. He went back doing his thing, letting the words go to one ear and out the other. Yumiko was not all happy to see him like this. But at this point, she'd given up on getting him to toe the line. 'Stubborn, insufferable fool', though the self-professed robo genius would gladly wear that insult with pride. While the briefing continued, he continued working at his leisure, right under everyone's noses.

He surely went all out with his scribbles. Ideas bombarded his brain: some were technically sound and practical, while others were deemed infeasible thanks to current-day tech. By making concessions to chassis size and storage space, Yokai Mk.2 could have additional batteries and extend its operational life by 50%. Replacing its four rotors with more efficient engines would do wonders in prolonged flights, especially for an autonomous flying drone. The added power draw for those gizmos might be problematic, though. In such case, perhaps the custom sonic emitter might have to be replaced with something that needed a little less juice. He could try to fit in that volumetric projector that the spunky French girl had been working on recently...

 _What the…?_

He didn't notice another pair of eyes were locked into him, just a row away to his left. All throughout, he had been grinning to himself like a complete loon, stared on by a pair of black orbs. Beautiful ones, like those he'd seen a few years back. Back when romance mattered to him, rather than turning from it like the plague.

Mei Lin. She heard the frantic scribbles coming from his side. Not the first time she played the observer, while he worked with a narrow instrument tipped with ink. And she glared at him with the same eyes of disappointment, just like back in the day. He felt threatened by her gaze, prompting him to return the same courtesy. A seemingly ancient rift had reappeared between them, accentuated by the physical distance, only mirroring their last meeting outside of Rainbow. Thankfully, today's staring match lasted only briefly, as the cop from Hong Kong was the first to call it quits. She turned away, shaking her head in displeasure. Her former paramour claimed the victory. Funny how things didn't change, despite the passage of time.

"That's about it, guys.", Meghan ended the meeting. "Any questions?"

"…"

"Okay. Expect final marching orders to come later today, at 1500 sharp. Business as usual in the meantime..."

Nods were exchanged.

"…And for crying out loud, can we put what happened last week behind us? That'll be awesome, thanks."

The American's last words again referenced the recent scuffles, judging by the groans and scoffs from her audience. With that, the room was filled with the sound of mumbling mouths, creaking chairs and tables, as everyone got up and left. Discussions and chitchats went the rounds, as expected, quickly becoming uncomfortable to the Japanese man. So much noise. So much stimuli. He gathered his things and made his way out of the door as fast as he could, not even bothering with Yumiko's request to have a word with him. He left her where she sat, dumbfounded and frowning by his sudden, rude haste.

Being the first one out of the door, Masaru was also the first one free from the brewing banters behind him. He took a deep breath to himself, having learned literally learned nothing from today's briefing. Luckily, his partner was there to cover for him. This meant he had more time and more reason to resume his train of thought about his beloved Yokai version two, still dominating his brain. A quick look at the wristwatch told him that he had already wasted almost two of hours his day. It was best to pick up the pace and make his way back to his favorite hole.

"Yo, Echo!"

The female voice came from behind. It was not as soft as Mei Lin's, nor as overbearing as Yumiko's. Rather, it was a bit playful and energetic.

"Grace!"

Skunk-haired pigtails and thick glasses caught his eyes right from the start. She wasn't wearing her beanie today, but then again, the grim-looking uniform never did match her demeanor.

"You headed back already?", she asked.

"Yeah."

"Cool! Let me come with you. I wanna see your prototype firsthand."

"Do not get your hopes up. I'm still working on it.", he pointed at his folder. "I suppose you can't write an auto-flight algorithm for a 32-bit CPU?"

"*laughs* Challenge accepted! Your drone only runs on an x86 I bet. That's sooooo last century!"

Her accent was still as obvious as ever. Suddenly, she tapped him hard on the shoulder. If any other person did that, Masaru would come up to their face and give them an earful at best. Not this woman. She was practically on the same wavelength as he was. Nothing came closer to the truth when she went ahead of him by a few paces, leading the way to the workshop. Naturally, he had to catch up. Such had been their dynamic, since the little goblin came to Hereford all those months ago. His moments with her could be grating at times, but at least they also made him smile more often. It was definitely more than what could be said with his experience with one Officer Siu long ago. Those months still seemed like yesterday. _Koin ya no gotoshi._

Yes, this was more like it, he reassured himself. He never expected to find someone who could keep up with his quirks and way of thinking. Grace defied the norm like he did, and shared the same passion for machinery. A rival and a friend, which was more that could be said to almost everyone else in the Team. Together, she and Masaru walked back to the workshop at the far side of Building C, near the Firing Range and Kill House. The small, windowless cube of concrete and reinforced steel was the nexus for Rainbow's Defense R&D Initiative. The two 'geniuses' couldn't wait to get back, so they discussed amongst themselves along the way, brainstorming ideas and trading the odd jab or two.

They arrived at their haunt not long after. Flicking the light switch again, they saw it in the same state that they left it a few hours ago. A brightly-lit room with partitioned tables, with some toolboxes, laptops, and spare parts lying around. Masaru and her friend tossed their things to their respective spots, but then they noticed something peculiar in the corner. One table had a circuit tester and a soldering kit resting on it, where Marius Streicher should be working. The German wasn't around, as his duties were elsewhere at this hour. But he did leave behind his tools for the two would-be engineers. And a note, to boot:

…

"I need them back today. Take good care of them. Or else."

…

Always cheeky as ever.

" _Yosh_. Let's get to work."

The Japanese man wasted no time and tossed the note away, much to his friend's surprise. He grabbed the tools on the table, then went straight to his station without a care. A spare drone awaited his perusal, which he immediately took apart to pick up where he left off; there was so much work to do. The propulsion system was already done; he could start with field tests by the time Grace had finished with her end of the deal. Hopefully, her algorithm wouldn't make his machine as braindead as a bird flying into a glass window. The power management unit would have to be redesigned, as per his notes, but it might be better if he finished fabricating the chassis first. Instinctively, he grabbed the circuit tester and started a quick runtime check on his robot's little CPU, to see if everything was right as rain…

And just like that, he was back to his own little world; the laziness that gripped him during the briefing today had vanished into thin air. The only Korean in the room was left slack-jawed on the spot, seeing one of the most insufferable and indolent members of the Team work his magic. But amazement turned into a mocking grin not long after, which Masaru could feel without turning his eyes on her.

"You're really so into that, aren't you?", Grace opened.

"Eh?"

"Don't you have any other hobby or something? …Buuuut, I suppose it's natural for boys to play with their toys."

"Shut up. You don't know me.", he rebutted with a harsh tone.

The girl was clearly not fazed by his reply and simply laughed at his face. She went to her station and opened her laptop, claiming the victory, much to the other person's chagrin.

 _What a jerk…_

To the sound of keyboard strokes, he made a mental note to give the damn goblin a piece of his mind once they're done. But for now he blocked out all other distractions. The only thing that mattered at the moment were his tools and his pride and joy. The kinship he shared with the hacker had taken a backseat; they were back to being strangers for the moment.

Funny how quickly things went down. Just like back then, with Mei Lin. He could've grown up a bit, give another girl yet another chance. In this case, it was Grace. She and Mei Lin were quite similar in many respects. Both were understanding, even if they had limits. Both had been patient with him, at least within reason. The new girl was pulling more weight this time around, even though the latter stayed longer. Such praises were more than could be said to a lot of people that Masa-san had met over the years. Could've been a rising star at the Police Academy or the next poster boy of the Police Service, if only his attitude didn't bring him down.

But he couldn't help it. Robots mattered more than relationships. So devoted he was at his trade that he didn't even bother with the particulars of... well, anything else. Perhaps he could've done something more. The image of a girl of short stature, beaming smiles, and a doting voice would quickly remind him of that.

"Well, I know you're too smart to be in the military.", Grace broke the silence. "If you've been with the White Tigers, they'll kick you out just like they did to me."

"..."

"Are you listening? I just gave you a compliment."

"Not good enough, Goblin. Try again."

The vitriol continued, as expected, then quickly subsided as they both continued with their work. Then, the stillness in the air was disturbed yet again when the door to the workshop creaked open. Sunshine briefly added to the white light basking the small room. The two tinkerers turned around, only to see another figure standing at the threshold. She wore the same black uniform as they did. She had the same dark orbs in her eyes, much as theirs. Masaru nearly called out a name. 'Mei Lin' was the first in his head.

It wasn't her. Thankfully so.

…

"Of course I'd find you two here...", Yumiko spoke unenthused.

"Oh, hey there Little Miss Perfect! What's up?", Grace greeted her with a jab.

"...We need you two at Hangar C right now. Help us with the inventory check."

"Aww... we're just getting started here!"

The other woman crossed her arms, frowning.

"We have 15,000 tech components to catalog before the flight.", she lectured. "Our friends in Morocco also want know how much of our stuff are we gonna bring."

Catalog? Flight? Moroccan? Those words sent shockwaves to Masaru's head, catching him off guard. Standing up from his seat, he spoke to the person he hastily left behind a few minutes ago. Naturally, she looked at him rather crossed. Not exactly a good starting point on his part.

"Morocco? Did you say Morocco?"

He clearly missed something important in the meeting, something he didn't realize would directly affect him. The other woman grinned. She evidently wanted to relish this rare moment where he was completely helpless. Unlike him, she had just enough restraint to speak to him in a courteous manner.

"30-day training exercise this weekend, Atlas Mountain Fortress.", she stated plainly. "Half the Team is going… you and Mei Lin will be there too."

...

And that was enough to send him into a bit of a panic. That was like three days away.

"No... I-I can't go! I still have work to do!"

"Hmph. You should've said something to Meghan then…"

" _Shimata_!" ("Dammit!")

The dawning realization came that his plans would have to be delayed. Or worse. 30 days? It was a heck of a long time to spend in one place, not to mention somewhere that was not his favorite place in all of Hereford. A training exercise would mean a strict schedule and even stricter rules, basically no room for leisure. No time for Masaru to work on the things he preferred to do. And that was not even considering the sheer stress and fatigue that would grip everyone at the end of each day. As such, he wanted to know who approved this arrangement, and why. He suddenly regretted not paying enough attention to Meghan's briefing earlier; he could've missed a few other things as well.

All kinds of thoughts started to racing in his head. Regret, anger, confusion. Most importantly, though, was Yokai Mk.2. His pet project was still in the drawing board, so perhaps there was something about it that he could still accomplish. Something he could still do over the next few days, before the inevitable departure to Morocco. Masaru went back to his bag and sifted through his belongings, trying to find the blue notebook he had been doodling on. If his wristwatch was still right about the time, he could design the drone's chassis by the end of the day, after that business in the hangar was taken care of. Assuming that no more surprises would come...

…

...His heart skipped a beat. His notebook wasn't there.

" _Kore o sagashiteimasu ka_?" ("Are you looking for this?"), Yumiko blurted out again.

This time she had something on her hand, instantly getting his partner's attention. A small, blue book with a spiral-binding, with reams of pages containing all of his notes. Such an innocuous thing to be happy about, but Masaru nonetheless smiled when he took it from the woman's grasp. The weight in his chest immediately disappeared, as quickly as it came.

"Where did you...?"

"You left it behind on your desk. You're welcome, by the way…"

Yumiko returned the favor to the owner, who was still speechless. Unfortunately for him, her smile was short-lived.

"…Hangar C. Inventory check. I'll be seeing you there."

With that, she turned around to leave the two 'geniuses' at the workshop. Grace pouted her lips, annoyed that her free-time was effectively rescinded in her face. Her colleague felt the same way, though he preferred a more subdued response. That wasn't in his mind though. Due to his haste, he almost lost a huge chunk of the work he'd done this past few days. His colleague, once again, was there to cover for him. He fell quiet as she went straight for the door, as silence befell the room yet again. Grace was confused by their exchange, opening her mouth to ask Masaru what just happened. But he simply went past her as he returned to his workbench, denying her a reasonable answer. As his hand hovered his tools, he started to hesitate.

…

He had to change. Just this once. He probably wouldn't have another chance.

"Imagawa-san. _Arigato_."

She turned around to look at him, one last time. She had the smuggest smile strewn across her lips. Knowing her, that was never a good sign.

" _Kansha shinaide_ (Don't thank me)...", she said. "Mei Lin found it."

"Huh?"

As it turned out, she had one more shocker in store for him.

"You heard me. Did you know she'll be your training partner in Morocco?"

Grace immediately burst into laughter when she heard that. There was no denying the truth at this point- the drone would have to wait, not that his world had just gotten busier. 'Time flies like an arrow', the proverb went. And it seemed like it was only yesterday since his cheeks turned into a warm shade of red.

...

* * *

 **Author's Comments/Notes:** My buddies often joke that Echo is the biggest (wannabe) playboy in Team Rainbow, due to his J-Pop looks and his relationships with Ying, Dokkaebi, and Hibana. I personally find this ironic since, looking into his backstory and quotes, he's actually one of the biggest jerks in the roster so far. Like I said in the foreword, this chapter was inspired by an idea from one of my readers, with changes in character choice.

Up next will be our favorite vape boy: Smoke!


	8. Chapter 8 - Smoke

**.**

* * *

 **James "Smoke" Porter**

* * *

…

"Right, my turn…"

"Ah, crap."

They had been trading stories for about an hour now, waiting for a call from the desk officer. The lobby at Thames House, while quite furbished, didn't provide much entertainment.

"…What's your single most painful experience, Evans?"

"*sigh* Cut my hands vaulting a barbed fence in a foot chase. Didn't have my gloves on."

"What, ya just flubbed like an amateur? Never been shot before? Stabbed?"

Sitting in a couch with James, the bald black woman took a deep breath and pointed at her L2 vest in response. An annoyed glare followed her gesture, but what she got in return was a mocking smile, which the man knew would cause her temper to boil.

"You bobbies (cops) wear that all the bloody time.", he chuckled and shook his head. "Won't hurt to break the rules every once in a while, y'know?"

"So says the war criminal."

"'Ey, don't believe those twits back at Base. My babes haven't hurt anyone who didn't deserve it."

"Sure…"

"I swear!"

That bit had a _thin_ layer of truth- the White Masks used Compound Z, the predecessor to the Z8 Gas in his toxic beauties, when they attacked Bartlett University. A grim story, still less than a year old. Foreseeing where their talk was headed to, James dropped the topic altogether and leaned back on the couch, letting the minutes crawl once more with a sigh.

It's already afternoon. The ex-SAS trooper was donning his off-duty casuals, running a bit famished so late in the day. Preparations were well underway for the training exercise at the _Kasbah Sehkra Mania_ , approximately 60 hours from now. That meant checking inventory, filing papers, and phoning people; Meg made it abundantly clear to get the ball rolling ASAP during the meeting earlier today. But while everyone was scrambling to get the pieces into place, the esteemed Rainbow Six herself still found a reason to send two of her people on an errand. To personally deliver an important message to an old friend in London, in light of this latest change in their training schedule, for transparency's sake. A four-hour drive from Herefordshire, even with optimal road conditions at the A40. A lot of trouble just for one, thin brown envelope.

James Porter and Morowa Evans were the would-be couriers, with the former resting their package on his lap. The arduous trip left the two Operators exhausted and stressed, not helped by the incessant ticking of the clock in the lobby. The man, more bored than knackered, had slightly higher spirits. The feeling had just sunk in that he was back in London. _Home_. A place he could relax, with people he could trust.

"Ever shoot an automatic weapon before?", he resumed the inane prodding.

"Yes.", Evans bluntly replied.

"Ever been to a car chase?"

"Yes."

"Ever shoot an automatic weapon _whilst_ in a car chase?"

"Hmph. I wish…"

"Hah! That a no then? Well… me, Seamus, and the Old Man dropped into Egypt a few years ago, see? High-Value Extract in the dead of night..."

"More war stories? Just get to the point, Porter."

"Babe, I'm about to teach ya somethin' that can save your arse from ending up brown bread (ending up dead), so pay attention!"

He frowned at her, feigning offense. In truth, he couldn't wait to share the gory, grim details of that episode in his life that would rightfully give her a little scare. The loud pops of bullets, the ceaseless yelling and constant adrenaline. And of course, the ever-sweet aroma of smoky gunpowder. But before he could continue, a bespectacled woman entered the lobby and approached their seat. She seemed like the secretary of the man they were waiting for.

"Detective Evans? Director Sweeney's ready to see you."

"Finally. 'Bout time.", the black woman sighed.

She stood up and went straight to down the hall, leaving her erstwhile chum alone in the couch. James laughed to himself, impressed by the woman's gumption. He followed her, crossing the threshold from the lobby and into the main hall, all the way to the lift waiting at the end. It was their ticket to the Tactical Operations Center of the British Secret Service, or 'MI5', where one Kevin Sweeney was posted. Knowing this place like the back of his hand only hammered home to James he had finally returned to the fold, even it's only for a short while.

The sound of keyboard strokes and ringing phones came when the elevator doors opened. A familiar sight. Pencil pushers still making the rounds, analysts and operators manning their workstations, almost everyone speaking into their headsets. Phones and fax copiers ringing off the hook. As usual, MI5 had been working their people hard. It felt like a decade since James had been to this exact spot, when London declared Threat Condition Red in the wake of escalated terrorist activity at the time. Aside from the obvious equipment upgrades, nothing much of import had happened in the interim. As he and his partner walked across the busy office space, he scanned the room for their destination, and quickly set his eyes on the brand-new label on one of the opaque, glass doors. The bronze stamped tag was a nice new touch. 'Assistant Director General'.

*knock knock*

James let the cop do the honors and enter the room first. Beyond the swung-open door laid the recipient of their package, hard at work behind his desk. A dark-skinned man of average stature, broad build, and a quiet disposition. A suit and tie painted him as a different person, a far cry from the counter-terror field operative he used to be.

"Director?", Evans asked for his attention.

"Close the door…"

He ordered her without lifting his head. James, seeing that the 'Skipper' was still in his old habits, mentally told himself to be in his best behavior. At least until it was his turn to talk.

"…You have something for me?"

"Sir…"

Evans then bid James to give him the envelope, to which the other man promptly opened the parcel and relieved it of its contents. He produced a thick ream of documents held together by binder clips, about a few hours' worth of paperwork back at Hereford. Consummate eyes then started to scan the papers left to right, digesting every written word therein. Director General Sweeney didn't even ask the duo about their drive from the SAS base all the way to London. Heck, he didn't question the good Detective herself if she had been treated well by her new coworkers so far. Then again, he always did prefer getting straight to the point, despite his soft-spoken nature.

"…Full manifest of everything Rainbow will be bringing to the Atlas Fortress, three days from now."

"15,000 tech components?"

"All shapes n' sizes, Director. Enough to fill a lorry or two. Or a war room."

Sweeney gave his guests the evil eye, then resumed reading. After a few seconds, he sighed to himself and rested his chin on top of two propped up hands, clasped together. He glared at them as he shifted his seat and propped his back. He seemed cross.

"This much hardware and manpower… Seems to me Rainbow's planning to _stay_ in Morocco. You sure you lot aren't using this exercise as a cover to jump ship?"

"The excursion's legitimate sir.", Evans started to elaborate. "There's an agreement between the Program's Board and the Minister Delegate in Rabat. Plus a written memo signed by the GIGR Commander himself. They'll accommodate us for only 30 days, then we'll RTB to Hereford."

All the bells and whistles, in other words.

"Now that's what I call transparency!", James boasted. "Ya see Skipper? Perhaps MI5 could learn a thing or two from us after all."

His jest was met with stoic eyes from the other man. It mattered little to the former subordinate, as he had enough experience working with the British Secret Service to back up his claim. He found it ironic for a highly-secretive organization to suddenly ask for honesty from the likes of Rainbow. The personal delivery of confidential documents should had been more than enough to build trust. Yet despite that, the spooks still demanded more proof. On the one hand, it was hard to fault the men and women of Thames House to be cautious. On the other hand, they wouldn't be having trouble making friends had they been forthcoming with their intentions all the time.

James learned this lesson the hard way. One thing about Egypt that he didn't yet tell Evans was the absolute… carnage that happened during the escape. The VIP that he and Baker's boys were sent to retrieve wasn't told the reason behind the rescue, well before it was launched. Had he known in advance, he would've brought his fiancé with him so they could live a quiet life in England together. Instead, he demanded the SAS team to make a detour, which burned a lot of time. Which allowed the bad guys to catch up to them…

Secrets get people killed.

"You may take your leave, Evans."

The Detective was stunned by the order, and briefly looked at James with abject confusion. He smiled at her, confidently, as if to tell that he would be fine without her company. Naturally, that left Evans with no other choice but to comply. She saluted her superior like the model cop that she was, then went out of the door. Both men now found themselves with the privacy that only one had asked for.

"What's going on Porter?", Director Sweeney resumed talking.

"Be more specific?"

"Six. What she up to, eh?"

Once upon a time, the aging black man had been a part of Rainbow. Unsurprisingly, he was also one of the handful who actively lobbied for their return to the UK. Neither tale seemed to hold water now, judging by his stern tone of voice.

"You tell me, Skip.", James shrugged. "You've known her longer than any of the lads did."

"MI5 is still concerned about what happened in America. We've asked Homeland Security about it, but the bloody Yanks have been stonewalling us at every turn… Now, I'm hearing Under-Secretary-General Barston's calling for an inquiry; someone at the UN has been sniffin' around."

"That right? What happened to hunting the bastards who sold the formula for my babes to the black market? We're forgetting that?"

James made it clear that the events preceding the attack on Bartlett still bothered him a great deal. Compound Z was neither his brainchild nor his exclusive toy, but it still felt like a personal affront to see a bunch of psychopaths get their hands on the stuff and kill some kids with it. A mad lad he might be with his 'babes', James was appalled to have them used against the very people they were designed to protect. He was seriously against senseless slaughter, much as he relished the thrill of battle.

"I heard you've got that end covered."

"Ooooh, the busybody's got an insider, huh? That's brill (cool)."

"The world's changed. We've just had a crew of psychos launch a global terror campaign right under our noses…", Sweeney continued. "…If Rainbow's version of what happened in New York is true, then Parliament needs to be aware of the ramifications of bringing you boys to the fold."

James chortled in response. It took them quite a long time to spot the obvious. He was… disappointed, to say the least.

"Do me a favor, Porter. If Rainbow gets compromised… make sure Baker and the rest won't catch the fallout. But to do that, I need to know first if the dear missus has a contingency plan for when that happens."

"What do you mean _'w_ _hen'_?"

"It's only a matter of time. Your friends are becoming a liability."

The other man grinned and crossed his arms.

"I hear that right? You want me to be your eyes 'n ears?"

"You of all people know I'm not asking for too much."

"My sleuthin' days are over, Skip. I'm a changed man…"

That bit only had a thin layer of truth in it. The urge to lie and muck about still ran strong in his blood, but thankfully the SAS had tempered him enough. Much as he'd like to indulge in ruining someone else's day, he had learned to make do with the sods who really deserved what was coming to them. What many people would call poetic justice. Someone who relished that kind of mayhem wouldn't be the type of person that Evans should be working with. But hey, at least he would be honest about it. All it took for him to change from a troublesome boy to a professional soldier was the company of a Scottish giant, an angry English codger, and an annoying Yorkshire twit.

"…and the boys and girls I'm hanging with are proper good ones. They don't deserve one of their own to be snoopin' about, making a mess of their work."

"…"

"That'll be all sir? You got the papers, I got meself a date with an angry bobby outside. So..."

The package had been delivered, after all. There was no more point in staying in the office. With the business concluded, James mocked a salute turned around to reach the door behind him. He needed a change of scenery, so quickly. Privately, he was taken aback by Sweeney's words; he didn't realize that even British Secret Service, Rainbow's supposed ally in the UK, would be distrustful of his mates. Truth be told, perhaps the trip to Morocco would actually be a good chance to get away from all the politics.

James was certain about one thing, though: Sweeney or any of his gophers wouldn't be getting anything from him. No stories to tell, only faux-ignorance mixed with genuine ones to keep himself from being an insider. Perhaps someone else at MI5, or maybe even that Barston-fellow in the UN, might make a move. It was one thing that the ex-SAS should be wary of, moving forward. Too much was at already stake for the supposed "good guys" to be casting stones on each other.

"Porter."

Director Sweeney called to him one last time.

"Do not forget where you came from. Where your loyalties lie."

"I'm sure o' mine, Skip… Just hope I could say the same for _your_ people, huh?"

…

* * *

…

Outside of Thames House was bright and vibrant, signaling the few hours left before sundown. It was good to be away from that grim atmosphere indoors. This trip had been quite strange- what was Six trying to accomplish by having them personally pay that geezer a visit?

No matter. It was good to be home, back in the streets of London. James started thinking about excuses he could give Evans so that he could slip away. He missed the sights and sounds. There was this pub at King's Cross that recently closed, or so he heard, and he needed to see it for himself. He wanted to know if there's one less reason for him to even think about going home, now that he had his hands full in Hereford. The thought was among many that occupied his head, as he and his female friend walked towards their car, which was parked on the sidewalk.

"So, you were saying?", she asked.

"Pardon?"

"Egypt. You, Cowden, and Baker, nighttime VIP mission, gunfight in a car chase... You left me hangin'."

For a moment there, James had forgotten that he owed Evans one more story.

"Oh, so _now_ you're interested."

"Shut it. If I'm gonna survive with you lot, I'll have to take all the advice I can get."

On that James could agree, especially since she was more at home quelling riots than fighting psychos. A job that would entail fighting dirty every now and then. Well, she could certainly learn something good, seeing that he himself was a subject expert in that regard. His life with the boys and girls of Rainbow had been nothing but mayhem and carnage, just the way he liked it. And as for that particular episode in Egypt, his survival hinged on someone handy on the wheel and another bloke who could keep their head on the level. A useful lesson even unto present day.

"It's easy, really. You need good aim and a good driver."

"…That's it?"

Evans was annoyed by his oversimplification, glaring like she did earlier in the lobby.

"Hah! I was just messin' with ya! Come on, I'll tell you all about it along the way."

"Just get to the bloody… ugh, forget it."

"Your flat is near, right? Pop on your best dicky dirt (shirt), 'cause we're goin' places today!"

"Wait, what?!"

Of course, James ignored her exasperation. He simply took out the car keys from his pocket and unlocked the doors. It was his turn to drive. He already had a good excuse lined up for an unscheduled stop at his gaff, and it was best they get a move on while the sun was still up. The Detective seemed to have read his mind as well, and gave him another stern look while they both strapped themselves inside the vehicle. But at this point, she was more than willing to relent. She, too, wanted to loosen up a little after a long afternoon.

But none more so than James, who wanted one last respite before the big day. He had learned quite a few new things from this visit to Old Sweeney. There might be trouble brewing among Rainbow's erstwhile friends, doubts and suspicions on their next steps. And then, there's the matter of Barston's spy to sort out, assuming the politician had the stones to send one in the first place. Or maybe it would be someone from MI5 instead. Hopefully, anyone with a cheeky idea wouldn't prove too much for the Team to deal with, as their last few days were already quite outrageous by themselves. Certainly a lot more turbulent and chaotic than the busiest days of the SAS ever did. It was just the way James liked it.

One thing was certain: the trip to Morocco had just become more interesting. Perhaps one more story that he could save for a future occasion.

…

* * *

 **Author's Comments/Notes:** Smoke is one of the most mysterious characters in the game. Nobody knows what he looks like, and his gadget is actually the one used by the White Masks in the Article 5 situation. I personally don't subscribe to the fan theory that he _might_ be a double agent for the bad guys; I like to think he's still one of the good ones, just a bit more violent and thrill-seeking. Aside from Clash, the other characters mentioned in this chapter all came from background lore.

It's just about time for me to tackle Siege's latest season. Kaid is up next!


	9. Chapter 9 - Kaid

.

* * *

 **Jalal "Kaid" El Fassi**

* * *

…

Legacy. It's the one thing that all humans would inevitably leave behind. For some, their legacy was tantamount to wealth and influence, an investment to secure their progenies' future. For others, it would be the name and the renown, intangible stuff that random passersby would, hopefully, bow to. Ironically, many people could care less what kind of mark they would leave behind until their twilight years loomed on them. Jalal El Fassi, the current _Kaid_ or 'Commander' of the Kasbah Sehkra Mania, would be the first to admit that the thought had crossed his mind once or twice.

No family, no children; some might say he was a 'failure of a man' for not siring his bloodline's next generation, as if his beard was not enough of an eloquent rebuttal. Of course, those same cretins would never say that to his face, such an imposing and stoic figure that he was. True to form, he was not like a weak-minded, elderly fool who needlessly worried about his 'legacy'. The only thing that mattered to him was the Fortress. That, and ensuring those leaving its halls would not tarnish its name, regardless of their name or wealth.

A fresh batch had just arrived two days ago. Foreigners.

Clad in his tan dress uniform, with a hand on his back, and another clutching a steaming cup of tea, Jalal leisurely admired the various portraits that lined the main hall near his office. They belonged to previous _Kaids_ , those who served their time until their retirement or untimely death. There was at least one who was ousted from his post due to some crime; he would forever go unnamed and unremembered. And beyond those frames was an empty space and a pedestal reserved for Jalal. One for his portrait, the other for the ornate dagger strapped to his belt. It was the subject of one of his most favorite mental exercises. Some days, walking down the same hall, he would imagine what his final portrait would be like, for future Commanders to admire. He expected that painting, whatever swathe of pastel and paint it might be, would be up to his stern standards.

But that was a matter for another time. He was the master of the house, and his house was currently a lodging for a number of guests. There were a little more than 20 of them today, men and women of all stripes. The muffled shouting coming from the main gate meant that they were doing some warm-up exercises right now, before the inevitable hike along the Atlas slopes. These soldiers from the 'Rainbow Program' were a spirited and enthusiastic bunch, much like some batches that Jalal had overseen. They seemed more like tourists than soldiers, however; Morocco was a change of scenery for them, with the hot climate and beautiful flora. They would definitely change their tune after the GIGR's baptism of fire, only a few hours from now. It was all typical of first-timers to an esteemed training institution such as the Atlas Fortress

Jalal scoffed to himself and walked across the hall of portraits, moving through the courtyard, then navigating the ivory staircase to reach the ground floor. He held his cup of tea all throughout his brief trek, running his thoughts as to how he could make Rainbow's visit much more worthwhile. When their Director asked him to run her people through an unorthodox training regimen, the _Kaid_ was quite hesitant to say 'yes'. The woman had been hounding him for years to join her little cadre, but he still did not know much about these Operators. Talented and unconventional, but the same could be said to quite a few from the GIGR, like Sanaa and some other troopers he mentored. Perhaps the experience would be the same? Regardless, Jalal agreed to take them under his wing, after some consternation.

Team Rainbow- they were a chance to build upon his legacy and his institution. Well, that was how Mike Baker sweetened the deal with him. He seemed a bit derisive of his own people, like a stern father describing his own wily kids. 'Wily' was an apt term when used by an old soldier; one look at the Fortress's main gate would prove that fact. As Jalal happened upon the entrance, he saw his would-be charges lined up in formation, fixing their gear. To his slight irritation, these people were smiling and cheering: trappings of a collectively-cavalier attitude. They were not taking this whole thing very seriously, as they were supposed to. And then, two people caught his attention.

"Your hands better not be where they shouldn't…", complained one short-haired lady with the narrow eyes.

Her cream-colored shirt and desert fatigues were tagged 'Ying', in black text. Her companion, a taller man with similar eyes, were fastening her training gear for her. His clothes were labelled 'Echo'.

"Get over yourself.", said the other. "You think I'll do that to _you,_ of all people?"

The duo were fixing each other's respective training harnesses, which were designed to carry a few weights to mimick the typical loadout of a routine GIGR desert patrol. Their weapons were topped with training rounds, their canteens were half-full, and their caps provided meager protection from the sun. It would appear that neither Ying nor Echo were used to this kind of exercise, though, seeing how they struggled to get their gear into order. That was only expected from law enforcement-types, more at home to the stresses of urban operations than the rigors of military work. In just a single instance, Jalal had become a little less impressed with these Rainbow-folk. Something like this would have never stood in his time.

He set his cup of tea down on an end table. Then, without asking for attention, the tall and imposing man strode to where the two younglings stood. His footsteps were swift yet distinct, and little by little the two trainees were made aware by Jalal's presence. They looked at him with startled, intimidated eyes. At first, they fixated on the dagger on his belt, crafted by the finest artisans of the _Gendarmerie Royale_. It was a symbol of his authority. It more or else described his demeanor perfectly, if the brusque face or the bushy beard did not already. He cleared his throat and let his voice do the honors.

"Is there something wrong?"

"Sir!", Ying stood at attention. "W-we were just securing our packs. We-we didn't mean to… uh…"

The girl started to trail off; she did not realize that she and her training buddy were delaying the exercise with their bantering. That was a 'second strike' as far as Jalal was concerned, but he didn't emote. Rather than berate her in front of her companions, he brought up his arm and looked at his prized wristwatch.

"You have 20 seconds to get yourselves in order. If not, you'll run a hundred laps around the Fortress. With _twice_ the weights."

It was not an empty threat either, as there were a few more training harnesses stowed just outside the lobby. The thought alone was more than enough to send Ying and Echo into a bit of a panic. They sprang into action, getting each belt and bag into their proper place no matter how uncomfortable they were. They communicated with grunts and gestures, which was just as paramount as their hand-and-eye coordination. Before long, their comrades noticed the commotion behind them, and they too stared in awe and abject fear. It was an impromptu punishment being meted out. Much as they would like to help their friends, they did not dare interfere with the imposing _Kaid_ and his work.

*click!*

"Time."

Jalal turned his eyes to the two, who were sweaty and panting. They completed the task by the skin of their teeth, just as he wanted them to.

"That was not so hard, now was it?"

"No sir!", Ying and Echo replied in unison.

"Good. Carry on."

They saluted him and scampered off to join the rest of the troupe, no doubt shaken by what they had just experienced. The duo were met with a few hushed cheers from their comrades, but they did not return the courtesy. It was time to move out; with the group finally complete and prepped, the designated leader of the hike signaled by blowing a whistle. The trainees marched off in pairs, exiting through the Fortress gates, and into the rough, uneven road outside, thus starting their run. Jalal watched quietly as their tan-colored figures slowly reached the horizon, marching in formation as proper soldiers should. It would take a few seconds for them to finally disappear from his view.

"Look at 'em go…"

The grizzled Commander turned to his side. The voice came from Mike Baker, dressed in a British Army-style desert camo, walking towards him. He had a strange-looking knife strapped to his left forearm. Clearly, a person of import within Rainbow's chain of command, if his posture was not enough evidence.

"…Bet that's the first time they were schooled since basic training."

"You disapprove of my approach?", Jalal asked him.

"Not at all. I say, proper good job whippin' those two into shape. Saves me the time."

"I pray they will not be a complete disappointment. They look… how do you say it English? …'Wet behind their ears'?"

Baker held back a laugh, as if that statement rang true to his head. The two men went back indoors, entering the lobby for a second time, to which Jalal picked up the cup of tea he'd left earlier. They encountered a couple more Rainbow Operators making the rounds, both of whom acknowledged Fortress's master with a salute. A brown-haired man carrying two rifle cases for the marksmanship test outside. There was also a spritely young woman with the freckled face hauling a big computer monitor, presumably headed to the briefing room on the second floor. Only a skeleton crew of GIGR personnel had remained in the Fortress, as Sanaa and a few others were deployed overseas, undertaking a mission of high priority. In all respects, Jalal was on his own and in the company of strangers.

Luckily, Baker was a known quantity. He had spoken to the former SAS Sergeant Major quite a few times in the past, and it was he who accompanied 'Director Six' on her travels to Morocco.

"Forgive me for saying, but I expected more from your people.", he said to the Englishman.

"New arrivals, the lot of 'em. The others back in England could still use a drillin' or two, but they're a bit better."

"That is not what I meant.", Jalal corrected him. "Only a handful in Rainbow have combat experience in harsh conditions. I will need more than 30 days to get them into shape."

After all, that was the reason why people flocked to the Atlas Fortress. It was the perfect place to simulate mountain and desert warfare, which seemed to be where today's major wars are being fought nowadays. Back in Jalal's time, the GIGR were trained to also fight in horseback, like the Bedouins of old. His skills in that regard were undimmed and he could teach Rainbow a few things about saddling and riding an untamed stallion. Though knowing them, they would probably prefer ATVs and motorbikes instead.

"We didn't ask for a crash course on desert survival.", Baker rebutted. "But I understand yer worries. Many of these kids weren't raised like we were…"

On that, the two men silently agreed. Such was the legacy of the modern world, siring generations of people unused to hardships and austerity. Exposure to an unfamiliar environment was enough to make some of the 'newbloods' to flounder. No wonder these youths were soft, Jalal thought. Of course, that could also be just his old age talking. He was probably a bit jealous that their upbringing was better than his.

"…But give 'em a chance. With a little prodding and slapping 'round, they'll surprise ya."

"Perhaps. I have read some of the technical notes they brought here..."

He pulled out a few pieces of folded paper from his backpocket. They were specs and summaries of some of Rainbow's 'toys', such as a portable cluster-flashbang dispersal unit and a state-of-the-art surveillance hover drone. The same equipment used by Ying and Echo, those two trainees that he disciplined earlier. Even a traditionalist like Jalal would admit that the GIGR could do a lot of good work, if they had a few of those in their arsenal. There was one thing that he wanted to clarify, though. It was a picture of a box-shaped, 12.6-volter and a few jumper cables.

"...I was clearly 'surprised' to see this. Why does Rainbow have a dozen car batteries in its inventory?"

"Crude Electric Device.", Baker explained. "One of our Germans came up with that when he was undercover. Sorta quick way to repel intruders and hold down an site."

He then took the papers from his hand; Jalal did not need to tell the other old man that he had already reviewed them. If the batteries and cables were designed as a defensive 'contraption', then there certainly were many ways which his engineers could improve on it. Creating a compact resonant transformer might provide the same power output. Fashioning a smaller chassis could allow various means of deployment, such as a pair of arresting claws or a foam-based adhesive. Nothing that the brightest minds in Rabat or Marrakesh had not yet overcome, really. However, judging if such a device would be worth the effort was a different story altogether. Any force could hold down a site with nothing but knives if they had careful planning, so this whole talk about fancy gizmos was moot.

If the bearded Commander had anything to say, he'd rather be drilling soldiers than wrapping his head around this technological nonsense. All the best machines in the world would never replace a trooper's strength, skill, and determination to succeed. That was what the Fortress taught him during his time. That was the one lesson he hoped his students would espouse by the end of their stay. But Rainbow might prove to be a different breed altogether. These people would have so many ideas that could easily contest everything that Jalal had known and stood by all throughout his life. Entry-and-assault tactics, drone surveillance, asset protection strategies. It was perhaps a reflection of their multinational background, which all the more proved that his approach might not be as effective to them as he had originally hoped. Today's march across the desert might even be a _pleasant_ experience for them, thanks to their high spirits.

Jalal's train of thought carried him elsewhere. With a hand under his bearded chin, he started to play the devil's advocate, look at things in retrospect. There was plenty of merit behind these tools that Rainbow seemed to heavily rely on. The world had evolved throughout the many years the _Kaid_ reigned over the Fortress; changes in doctrine were only to be expected. Judging everything strictly by his own stern standards would not be a novel idea all the time, when clearly some innovations had good reason behind them. To an effect, perhaps his old-fashioned way of miles-long treks and physical training might be lacking in some regards. He just needed to look deeper into the faults of his own mindset. If that was the case, then it would be his duty to challenge these new ideas. See if they could withstand the rigors of time and battle, as Jalal himself faced them during his youth.

Little by little, he realized that his work was cut out for him. He did not mind.

"Hope all that rubbish about the tech's not been gettin' on yer nerves too much."

"Not at all, Mr. Baker. I will see to it that your people will leave my Fortress as better soldiers... Even if they insist on using their little robots."

"Ain't that a thought."

"Yes. I believe we could start with the high-altitude combat training tomorrow. Something sure to put your best Operators to their knees."

"Bloody hell, maybe _I_ could still learn a thing or two from ya after all."

Jalal scoffed at the complement, which clearly had a lot of meanings behind it. It was both a praise and a challenge; would the _Kaid_ be up to Rainbow's standards? Much as he wanted to put these upstarts to their proper place, he understood why they were asking so much from him. He recalled the image of that 'Crude Electric Device', and he started picturing the many ways to improve it as was asked. Once he wrote it all down, he could let the GIGR's engineers do the rest. He hoped that the final product would be something worth placing on a plaque or a podium, something that he could proudly say as his legacy.

Legacy. The one thing people leave behind when they die. Suffice to say, Jalal had nothing to fear in that regard. His place in the Fortress's history was secured, for better or worse. He only needed one more touch to add on it, something that future generations could learn from. And these men and women put under his care could be the best instruments for the task. There would come a day where their strength and skills would be put to the ultimate test, and their success would hinge on everything that _Kaid_ El Fassi had instilled in them. He could already picture his final portrait in the hall upstairs. It would be something worthy of praise and awe, even if his history with Team Rainbow would have to be redacted as well. No matter. There was another way to make his portrait even more memorable.

He walked to another end table, where a kettle of tea was situated, freshly-brewed. He poured some for himself and to the other man, as was customary for guests. They had quite a lot more things to discuss.

"That knife on your arm. It is a Fairbairn-Sykes, correct?", he asked Baker.

"Eh? You want one?"

…

* * *

 **Author's Comments/Notes:** Shout-out to one of my readers, MaximumSalt, for his continued support and for sharing several ideas for my planned sequel to 'Freedom Day'. His Batman fanfic 'The Mime and the Menace' has been out for a while now, go check it out!

Some behind the scenes: I had to choose between Kaid and Nomad for this one, but I decided to go with the former because I like the dynamic he shared with Thatcher: grumbling old men who hate technology and love to spout that things were better back in their day. That said, Kaid struck me more as a trainer rather than a field operative; mentoring is his forte after all. Thatcher, on the other hand, is more hands-on and has the experience of several wars to draw from. I guess if I'm ever gonna showcase Kaid in my future stories, he'll mostly be in the background.

Coming up next: Alibi!


	10. Chapter 10 - Alibi

**.**

* * *

 **Aria "Alibi" de Luca**

* * *

…

Day Five of Rainbow's out-of-country excursion. Just like yesterday, the sun was a scorching bright orb in a cloudless sky.

"Adjust for windage…", ex-GIS Adriano Martello spoke to his partner while peering into a spotting scope. "…Wind blowing west-to-east, quarter value... Fire when ready."

Wiping the moisture from her eyelids, Aria de Luca noted the change in wind direction and responded appropriately, turning the top-most knob on her rifle scope. The shemagh gave her much comfort against the heat, though not enough for the rest of her worries in this training exercise. Shooting a bipod-mounted M40 in arid mountain conditions was an entirely different ballgame, more so because she was trained as a pistol markswoman. Unlike the handgun speed contests she was more accustomed to, today's test would have her lying flat on her stomach, motionless. Here, she had to deal with humidity, wind speed, bullet drop, and not to mention the beads of sweat on her forehead. All of which were taxing to her concentration.

Commander El Fassi's high-altitude combat exercises had been designed to acclimatize the Rainbow's "Grim Sky" Urban Tac-Response Unit with unfamiliar territory. So far, they were proving to be quite the gauntlet for the boys and girls- even for Aria who had been to Afghanistan before. The desert marches in the Atlas Mountains were challenging by themselves, but the mock firefights across the slopes had been much _worse_. And this afternoon was supposed to be tame by comparison: a long-range marksmanship exam with practice targets and live ammo. There were ten dummy targets, spread across a staggered firing line over at the next mountain; taking out six out of them would pass the test. At first glance, it was a walk in the park.

Aria once again peered into the thin crosshairs to find her target in the distance, which was propped beside a few sandbags. 700 yards, give or take. After a paused breath to steady her aim, she squeezed the trigger with a quick motion, letting loose a 7.62mm out of the sound-suppressed barrel. The recoil kicked in, slightly rocking her view in the scope, and signaling her to work the bolt-action and eject the spent cartridge. She could not see the bullet's flight with her naked eye, so she mentally visualized its trajectory instead. The round would fly strong and true, pushing against the breeze. With the prior adjustments she had made, she was certain that it would find its mark…

…

"Miss...", her spotter reported.

The puff of smoke from the sandbags confirmed the result. The woman let out a quick sigh of frustration, then spouted a brief barrage of unladylike words her father would most definitely not approve of. She was immensely embarrassed, and she wanted to pull down the cloth over her head to hide her shame. A petty reaction, but an understandable one as well, since her most trusted companion was with her. Not exactly the person she wanted to see her less-than-stellar performance. Despite the failure, he still rooted for her.

"...a little closer to the target this time, but-"

"Tally: five out of ten.", Specialist Mallory wrote into his chart, shaking his head. Team Rainbow's acting-rangemaster was watching her the whole time, standing only a couple of feet away.

"My shots keep pulling to the left.", Aria complained to him. "I wish our ammo had a superior ballistic coefficient."

"Bring it up to Six next time we go on a field trip; I'm only here to grade y'all."

The American was rather unenthused by her excuse, though at least he was impartial. Still, the failure was quite aggravating for the woman, enough to make her rant on the spot if she only lacked self-discipline. It was like being asked by her teacher to showcase her talents in front of class, only to fail miserably during the attempt. Fuming with quiet rage, she wanted to pick up her rifle and toss it over the cliff they were perched on. Good thing dear old Adri understood her feelings, comforting her with much needed jest and a thumbs up. The tap to her shoulder was just the icing on the cake.

"Ah, don't listen to him. _Farai meglio la prossima volta_ (You'll do better next time)!"

Aria scoffed at the man, giving him the evil eye.

"That's a wrap for you...", Mallory spoke again. "...Clear the action, switch to safe, then prop your rifle on the rack over there."

She nodded her head then pulled back the rifle bolt as a safety measure, right before flicking the little knob near the trigger guard as instructed. Then, she folded the bipod on her weapon as she stood up from her sniping perch, stretching her back a bit. The air was filled with more sound-suppressed shots from the other Operators, all of whom were being schooled in the art of high-altitude marksmanship. Some were performing better, while others were just as frustrated as she was. But none of that mattered anymore, as her chance had come and gone. She started the short walk towards their resting area, where the gun rack was located. Her spotter was not too far behind. It was a bit weird for him to tag along for this test, since he himself was a qualified instructor, though that could just be because he appreciated her company.

" _Stai bene_ (Are you alright)?", he asked, using the language barrier for added privacy.

"..."

" _Vuoi che ti tiri su il morale_?" (Do you want me to cheer you up?)

She replied with another cold shoulder. If only she could see his magnificent smile, which was sure to lift anyone's spirits. Aria, on the other hand, was failing in that regard. Much as she wanted to hide the bitterness, she didn't want to sound like a sore loser. Her anger was exactly what she felt as an 18-year-old, losing at an air pistol contest in Rome. That was then. _Carabiniere_ de Luca had grown up long ago, and there were a great many things that could describe her now. Not all of them would be flattering.

*buzz buzz*

Her eyes widened by her beeper, vibrating from front trouser pocket. She had completely forgotten that she brought it with her today. A quick look at the device confirmed her worry; she was a few minutes late for an important appointment.

" _Vai avanti…_ (You go ahead…)", she bid Adri with a small grin. "… _Ci vediamo dopo_ (I'll see you later)."

The big guy was shocked to hear she no longer needed his inane presence, pouting his lips as a joke. He did what she asked nonetheless; he went off to the resting area but not before wresting Aria's sniper rifle from her lithe hands. He would bring it to the gun rack in her stead. Always a gentleman, she thought; one of these days it would get him into trouble, or worse. The woman waited until he was out of view, to which she then pulled out the portable satellite phone from her other pocket.

...

"Hello?"

"You missed our timestamp. What's going on?"

It was a gruff male voice. Under-Secretary-General Barston, no doubt calling from his office in America. The tone had a marked sense of urgency to it; it was best not to waste his time. Aria looked over her shoulder once more, see if the coast was clear. To her frustrations, the other trainees were within earshot from her. Though they were engrossed with the test, Aria's cover would be blown if she opted to speak freely. If she sneaked away to find a more secluded spot, the rangemaster would notice her absence. It was time to use a different tactic.

"I still have a problem with my visa. The embassy said they will get back after eight working days."

She employed a cipher, similar to what she'd normally use when going undercover. 'My preliminary report about Team Rainbow is not yet complete; I want you to call again after eight hours'. The need for subterfuge was necessary not only to make her conversation sound normal, but also to mislead anyone who might be eavesdropping on her signal. The latter was a distinct possibility, given the talented tech-savvy individuals that Six had been recruiting recently. Much as she wanted to update Barston on her mission's progress, today's test had put a dent on her plans.

"I hope you've been making friends regardless. Are you close to them?", he asked.

The woman looked over her shoulder again. Her 'friends' were about 20 feet away.

"Very."

"*sigh* Say no more... I'll be quick."

"Go."

"The tall guy, Ben, got in touch with me earlier. The paperwork is clogged; he said the embassy should solve the problem by themselves..."

('Message from London. They are unable to provide further assistance; you are on your own.')

Aria was unnerved by that revelation, even though she had already anticipated it. She could personally confirm that it would be nearly-impossible to compromise Team Rainbow. It was a tightly-knit group, one that even the likes of the British Secret Service could not hope to tear apart. As the Brits would be sitting on their hands, it seemed that Aria was once again left to her own devices. She started to think about her next steps, how to remain covert in her coworkers' midst. How she could maintain a trustworthy face, while she pursued another agenda. She also kept tabs on the right excuse and escape plan to carry out should things go south. The more she thought about all this, the more she felt like a wolf hiding among sheepdogs.

"...I know you have reservations about this job, but I need you to hang on for-"

"A little longer? The longer I wait, the greater the chance for this whole thing to fall apart.", she blurted out. A risky move to briefly drop the masquerade, but she wanted to get her point across.

This mission was different from Operation Spider Wasp. Different from her famous takedown of the Vinciguerra Mafia. She was pitting herself against a clandestine counter-terrorism unit, one that genuinely treated her as a promising asset and a friend. Good and honest peacekeepers, whose only crime was running afoul one of the most powerful men in the UN for… reasons. In good conscience, she could not fully commit to a task that fundamentally opposed her morals.

"Look, you are a resourceful woman. If anyone asks about what you're doing, you have an alibi. Remember that."

'Alibi'. The name couldn't be more apt to a woman who had a knack for lies and deception. Catchy, yes, but it was something Aria was not completely proud of.

"…"

"Are you still there, Miss de Luca?", Barston asked.

"I... I'll call you back."

*click*

She returned the sat-phone to her pocket, sighing at the conversation's poor timing. The training exercise was still underway, with more than a dozen Rainbow troopers lying prone with sniper rifles. It seemed nobody paid attention to her call. A good sign, since the last thing she wanted was for her colleagues to bug her about non-existing problems she had with her travel papers. They had been so welcoming and friendly; it was a pity that she couldn't reciprocate their camaraderie in full. Heck, one of Rainbow's engineers even offered Aria to field-test an experimental, portable decoy system- an _unusually_ great honor for someone with less than half a year spent with the Team.

Their trust was clearly misplaced, as any cynic would say, but that could still be changed. Or exploited. But would she? Could she forgive herself if she went that far? It would probably be better to tread lightly from this point on, to ease the pressure weighing on her conscience. So engrossed in thought, Aria felt the heat on her body rise up more. The shemagh on her head provided what little comfort it could, to no avail. She was getting anxious, and a part of her was starting to regret ever partaking in this little charade from the very start.

She understood why Barston might be wary of Team Rainbow. Rainbow was functionally a private force that would only answer to the authority that created them, and no one else. Technically, they had free rein to do anything necessary to protect the world. From their own ranks, they established dedicated urban operations and bio-chemical warfare units, siphoning even more resources from the UN. Such power would be very easy to abuse, even by those with noble pretenses. The honest cop in Aria understood the need to spy on these people and render some proper check-and-balance. But they weren't the scallywags and misfits she was led to believe; they were good people with ultimately noble hearts. Brave men and women who would gladly lay down their lives to protect the innocent. They deserved far better from those holding them on a short leash. Team Rainbow agreed to suffer through one of the toughest training programs on Earth and hone their skills to the fullest, yet this was the 'thank you' they got from Barston? A spy to keep them on their toes?

*thud*

"Ow! Hey!", Aria exclaimed to the slap to her shoulder, breaking her solemn rumination.

She turned around with a furious face, only for it to melt at the sight of Adri's boisterous grin. He was just done stowing her rifle away.

"I'm going to watch our friends. Care to join me?"

There was a witty rebuttal waiting in her head, but she nodded 'yes' out of reflex. The charm on this man was impeccable, much as she didn't want to admit it. Restraining herself from punching off that smile from his mug, she let him lead the way back to the range near the cliff-edge with the muffled gunfire. The other trainees' performance fell on a spectrum, as before, but there was one blonde man who seemed to be doing well. Erik Thorn, one of the "Grim Sky" unit's field leaders, who was also joined by Specialist Mallory. The rangemaster was kneeling beside him, peering into a spotter scope.

"Confirmed hit... Center mass, seven-zero-one yards. *scoffs* Now you're just showing off, Maverick. You already got eight targets down."

"Just tryin' to stay sharp, brother."

The two men exchanged laughs, to which Adriano decided to join in and have a chat. Aria envied him, as it was clear that he had nothing to hide, and in turn his teammates returned his trust in kind. She could enjoy the same sentiment if only she remained forthcoming with her intentions. Comfort and calm, the flipside of which would be widespread contempt if she decided to spill the beans. Her man would probably take it the worst, bringing an abrupt end to the GIS's credibility with the Team. This was a pivotal crossroads for Aria: Rainbow could either be her best chance to do some good in the world, or the biggest mistake she would ever make in her professional career.

Specialist Mallory then blew his whistle.

"Time! Actions clear, check your weapons…"

It was followed by sighs of relief from a few folks. At long last, the test was over.

"…Alright, you can rest up for a while. We'll march down for debrief in five minutes."

"How did we do, eh?", the Italian man asked aloud. "Did anyone else fail... or was Aria the only one who sucked?"

"Wow. Thanks for having my back, _ciccio_ (baby)… I'm _so_ inspired to do better next time."

"What? I was only being honest!"

The woman crossed her arms and frowned, but only to make way for a wry smile for her lips a second later. He, on the other hand, let out a worried laugh for fear that he had offended her much to the amusement of a few, more astute trainees. He looked so vulnerable. Gullible, even. All this levity was a distraction, one of many more to come for sure.

"We can have an extra session back at the Fortress.", Mallory said to her. "You ain't the only one who had a hard time."

"Ah. Y-You don't have to go that far for me… I can manage on my own."

She switched her tone to something a bit more serious.

"Don't talk like that; we're a team.", Erik Thorn chimed in. "We need you as sharp as possible if you're rollin' with us…"

The man then turned around the address the rest of the trainees.

"…Anyone up for another go this afternoon? We'll manage something easier- 600 yards, enclosed spaces... We won't have to worry about wind resistance."

Many of them looked at each other in silence, briefly, then bobbed their heads after a few words. All acknowledged the need to hone their skills further. Perhaps, it was also a show of solidarity for one of their own for failing to meet the cut. Aria smiled at the sentiment, while she made mental notes, yet more fodder for her ongoing assessment about Team Rainbow. She wondered how she would fit in moving forward, despite her reservations. Even still, Thorn's words echoed in her head. 'We're a team.' The words gave her a warm, pleasant vibe like the bright smiles of a certain beardy guy.

"Alright. Ethan, think you can bring this up with the Commander? Seems like we need to do a little overtime work today."

"I'll give it a shot. No promises though."

With that, they dispersed and grabbed their gear, eager to get the rest of the day over with. Aria looked on as they readied themselves for the trek down the mountain slope, unsure what kind of future awaited her with them. There would be a time when the truth would be laid bare: that she joined Rainbow not to represent her home, but rather to fulfill a mission given by another man. On that day, she hoped that Adri would understand. For _all of them_ to understand. She wanted to clench her fists. Until the ruse was unraveled, she would have to play the part. More lies, more ciphers were to come.

Or she could just walk away from it all. There was still a chance to end the farce, if she only had the will to seize it.

…

*buzz buzz*

Her phone came to life again as they walked. It didn't take a genius to figure out that it was Barston calling, wanting to continue their chat. This was not the proper time.

"Aren't you going to answer that?", Adri asked her.

The man trusted her still. She gave him the sunniest smile she could, right before fumbling with the device tucked in her pocket.

*click*

…

* * *

 **Author's Comments/Notes:** I'm a bit intrigued by Alibi since it's said in her bio that her addition to the Team is suspicious and unusual. She also answers to a guy in the UN named Barston, who has some sort of beef with Rainbow. I have zero idea what this whole deal is about, so I kept it ambiguous here, though I may explore the 'undercover spy' angle in the future. Speaking of which, I hope you've noticed I'm building up some lore-related stuff in my stories. I'm saving them for the 'Freedom Day' sequel I have in the pipeline.

Due to popular demand, I will dedicate a chapter for Dokkaebi. In the meantime, stay tuned for Mira. :)


	11. Chapter 11 - Mira

**.**

* * *

 **Elena María "Mira"** **Álvarez**

* * *

…

There was nothing like driving a heavily-armored SUV in the middle of nowhere; there were neither bumps on the road nor long lines of traffic to avoid. Elena gripped the steering wheel with firm hands, going 80 per hour, just like what her father taught her. Behind her was a team of five mask-wearing combatants, sitting in the armored compartment, all geared up for a hard breach-and-entry maneuver. Their objective was a two-story building somewhere in the desert, with pre-planned entry points at the windows and the front door. Timing was key; if she drove too fast, the vehicle would miss its mark and force her passengers to drop out further from their target. Too slow, and the tangos inside the structure would see them coming from a mile out, ruining the element of surprise.

The distance was closing. It was now or never.

Three.

Two.

One.

*tires screeching*

"Go! Go! Go!", she yelled behind her.

"Dismount, dismount!", Morowa Evans ordered her fellow passengers. "Alpha, left-side breach! Stack up!"

From the rearview mirror, Elena observed the team disembark the vehicle in rapid fashion, with the designated leader brandishing her Crowd Control Shield. From there, they advanced to their objective with all haste- the black British woman taking point while another Operator totted an assault rifle across her shoulder. It took them less than ten seconds to reach the building and huddle behind its walls. The driver was mildly proud of her contribution, getting them this far and this fast.

Everything was working well. She saw Evans use hand signals to order an explosive breach, to which she was heeded by her group's second man, who came in front of the queue. He pulled out a flat, brown charge from his backpack and placed it on the door, before hurrying back to cover. The device exploded a few seconds later, and this prompted the leader to set her foot into the building first. The rest of the team followed her inside the dark interior, weapons raised, and soon they disappeared from Elena's perspective. A few seconds later, there came loud crashing noises and shouts from within the structure. Then, came the gunfire…

…

"Operator down. Operator down.", the driver's radio buzzed in with a male voice. "All trainees reset. Scenario aborted."

"Not again…"

Frustrated, the Spanish woman lightly punched the steering wheel, missing the horn by a few inches. Within moments, her teammates emerged out of the building with their guns down. There was confusion and disappointment strewn in their eyes, as the desert sand kicked up on their masked faces. And just like that, their session was over and it was already time for another peer review. The morning had barely even started.

…

…

"I was blindsided, sir.", Evans explained. "The shield's too unwieldy to move in tight spaces."

The response she got was a cold stare from the grizzled GIGR Commander. The rest of the squad sat anxiously on plastic chairs, listening closely while they waited their turn. Elena, on the other hand, was more tranquil, patiently tapping her foot until it was her turn in the wringer. Luckily, she didn't do anything wrong; she only had to wait and listen, until it was time to return to the driver's seat.

They were inside a tent, the designated debriefing area this morning, which was located just a short distance from the training building they were supposed to "raid". It was rather cool and comfy inside, as desert dwellings were wont to be, but some tension still pervaded. The air was rife for a whole lot of debating and finger pointing, only a hair's breadth from another fistfight. This had been the prevailing theme of the training exercises; 'Kaid' El Fassi loved organizing little daytrips outside of his beloved Fortress, exposing Team Rainbow to the harsh elements of the Atlas Mountains. Constantly faced with an unfamiliar environment, the small group of trained professionals were always off of their game, making it easier for them to make a misstep.

Learning why they were all sent to suffer through this Spartan-like regimen was above Elena's paygrade. The worse part? It seemed that the bearded drillmaster was reveling in their misery. He was breaking them down to their basest skills and taking their tools away from them, reminding everyone of their personal note. Of course, the Spanish woman had suffered through worse. She would rather be at the beck and call of this old dude than, say, eke out a living in a dirty street. She would rather be shouted at by the old soldier, than spend another second in the midst of that pompous redhead Eliza. It had been a nice change of pace to have somebody else barking orders.

"That is not what the cameras told me, Clash."

"Sir?"

"Team cohesion and speed. Your Number Two reacted half a second too late."

Elena instantly took a mental note on what the 'Kaid' just said, who also pressed the remote control for the projector on the propped up desk, illustrating to everyone what he was talking about. The projector played a looping camera footage, slightly-blurred and grainy, which turned out to be a bird's eye perspective of what transpired a few minutes ago. Five heavily-armed Operators moving inside the building in single file. They were met with a torrent of rubber bullets just a few seconds after they breached. Naturally, they returned fire with their own guns, a rather messy display at that. And somewhere in that chaos, an errant round had found its mark on Evans' helmet. The person behind her, Ryad Ramirez, retaliated with a double-tap to the source of the shot, but by then it was already too late. Losing a man meant losing the training scenario.

" _Buen Trabajo_ (Nice work).", Elena bumped her friend's elbow.

"Hah. _Seguro que usted lo hará mejor que yo_ …" ("I'm sure _you_ can do a better job than me…")

It was here that the Commander stopped the video and turned his stern eyes on the other Spaniard.

"Do you have anything to say for yourself, Jackal?"

"I have no excuse, _señor_."

"This is not acceptable! You are supposed to be better than this!", the old man raised his voice. " _All of you_ are better than this! …You telling me that none of your training prepared you for something this basic!?"

"No sir!", they replied unanimously.

The entire exercise was yet another staple of the Moroccan Gendarmerie, designed to teach everyone the art of rapid, tactical deployment from a moving vehicle. Team Rainbow needed to be a flexible fighting force, as the rationale went, and Elena wholeheartedly agreed with this mindset. Though to be fair she was the only one to be enjoying these stunts, since she was the designated driver. As Ryad would always say to her, she might love playing mechanic, but what she _really_ yearned for was a chance to get behind a steering wheel. Dear Papa's influence, most certainly.

"…We will run the exercise again in 30 minutes. If you fail, tomorrow's physical training will be at dawn. _With no water breaks_."

Elena smiled in her head. El Fassi was like one of her old training instructors back in Madrid, albeit ten times more intimidating. Her father always said not to be daunted by such people, as they ultimately had her best interests at heart. Like a troublesome engine, they could be managed with enough grit and patience. She only needed time.

30 minutes: the Commander had allotted them a half hour to rest up or go on a trip to the latrine, while the training building was reset for another run. Elena realized that she didn't have enough time to work her magic. She had been making technical notes in her brain since the codger started blabbering in front. The shot that hit Evans came from an unexpected angle, and she was right in suspecting that her riot shield was the problem. Considering the Brit's body build and reflexes, she definitely had less leeway to react swiftly, especially with her heavy-duty gear. An adjustment to the Crowd Control Shield was in order. She could tweak the servos to minimize the retraction of the translucent armor panels, or she could remove some of the weights to make it a bit lighter to wield.

While the rest of the trainees dispersed, Elena made haste to talk with the other lady. The clock was ticking.

"Hey, Detective.", she called her attention. "Can I take another look at your shield?"

"What for?"

"A few modifications. We only have half an hour, but I think I can work something out that will help you."

Briefly, the bald woman looked at her with puzzled eyes, only to relent on the next moment. Elena was one of Rainbow's best gearheads, after all. If not _the_ best.

"Tch. Sure… Won't hurt to bloody try, I suppose."

"Excellent! Wanna come with me and see it for yourself?"

"Maybe in a while.", the former cop shook her head. "I have to talk 'strategy' with my mates here for the next run…"

"If you say so."

With that, Elena grabbed her gloves and made her way out of the tent, basking herself in the bright sunlight. She didn't bother shielding her eyes, as the trainees' makeshift workshop was just a short walk away: another tent in the middle of nowhere. Inside, she stumbled across a motley collection of crates, trunks, and lockers arranged in a rather haphazard way. It didn't take her that long to find the good Detective's shield, conveniently stashed beside a large tool cabinet. The work was cut out for the resident tinkerer seeing that she had everything she needed, and perhaps a thousand more she didn't.

There were all sorts of equipment stored in the storage-slash-workshop tent as well. In one corner laid her stockpile of opaque, bullet-resistant glass that the Commander would use for yet another exercise. El Fassi was intrigued by her Black Mirrors and wondered if his beloved GIGR troopers could get their hands on them too. In another corner was a hoard of equipment prototypes that Mira still needed to work on. A machinegun-mounted shield, redesigned portable barricades, more armor panels for the SUVs, just to name a few. She planned to work on them once this whole test was over with. By her estimates, that would be an hour or two from now.

She smiled at herself, thinking about them all, the products of years and years spent in a garage. She had no Master's degree to boast, nor a high-paying salary to match, yet she had already accomplished so much in her life. She had been to all corners of the globe, made friends along the way, and created a long-lasting rivalry with another woman. Her handiwork was recognized by some of the most powerful countries on Earth, all wanting a piece of her genius designs. She was lauded as one of her country's best and most upstanding public servants, enough to earn her a spot in an international taskforce. Quite a huge step up from a struggling family who only made ends meet by fixing cars and selling parts. Their road had been a tough one, but it had gotten them quite far.

And today would be just another speedbump. The Crowd Control Electro Shield, with its bullet-resistant glass, quick retraction mechanism, and circuit arrangement, was Elena's brainchild. As such, she was in the best position to make adjustments as she saw fit. One gander at the transparent, armored frame proved one of her hypotheses: the shield's front panel didn't provide enough coverage when it was retracted. By all accounts, an easy fix. Wasting no more time, she opened the cabinet and grabbed a power tool and a wrench, then knelt down to start working. She didn't need a blueprint or a diagram as a guide; she knew by heart everything she had made.

" _Oye_ , Elena.", a male voice called to her from the outside.

She recognized Ryad's voice, but she didn't answer back. He probably came here to check up on her, remind her of the time. Not that she needed babysitting; she couldn't wait to see her handiwork in action, one more time. She couldn't wait to get behind the wheel and do what she did best. There was still the matter of the exercise to deal with, but it was nothing that grit and patience wouldn't overcome. A few minutes later, Elena was done. She sighed to herself and marveled at her craft. The Crowd Control Shield looked a bit smaller now that its servos only retracted to about two-thirds the original length. That should grant a greater deal of mobility, while still protecting the good Detective from getting dinged in the head. The coverage for the rest of her body should still be within the reasonable range, but there was only one way to find out. With a beaming smile of self-satisfaction, Elena hoisted the shield over her back with one hand, then parted the flaps of the tent.

Once again, she was met with a bright sun and the scorching heat, not that she'd mind. In her midst was her teammates, huddled together and talking about their next run. They were already in their training gear. Ryad Ramirez and Morowa Evans had been waiting for her.

"Care to give it a try, Detective?", Elena asked the other woman. "I adjusted the panels and gears to make the shield more maneuverable."

"Right. Let's try it."

She took it from her hands, then gripped the metallic handle, planting the shield square into the ground. Then, she engaged the servos, retracting them to their intended 'deployment' state. A mesh of bulletproof glass surrounded the front of her body in response. This time, though, the shield expanded at a fraction of its original time, became a little bit less unwieldy to use. It was enough for the baldheaded Detective to give one of her rare smiles. The Operators cheered on, happy to know that their next foray into the training exercise would be a bit easier.

Elena was proud of herself. A mechanic, a tinkerer, a driver, a public servant, and a counter-terrorist agent. Quite the resume for a poor grease monkey from Madrid. No doubt her father was smiling… wherever he might be.

"Cheers, luv. You're a miracle worker."

"This is more like a 'good start', I say.", Ryad chortled. "A 'miracle' is when she's finally made peace with Eliza. Isn't that right?"

He patted Elena's back, playfully, only for her to turn around with a scowl.

"Do _not_ get me started with that arrogant little-"

*whistle*

"Trainees!", Commander El Fassi called out to them from the other tent. "Mount up and get to your starting positions!"

The time to shine had come again and Elena couldn't punch her friend fast enough. No matter; she was called to duty a second time. She picked up a helmet and dropped its visor, then calmly walked towards the SUV.

…

Again, there was nothing like driving a heavily-armored vehicle in the middle of nowhere; there were neither bumps on the road nor traffic to avoid. Elena gripped the steering wheel with firm hands, going 80 per hour. She was focused yet at peace, knowing that she had done good work today. All she needed to do was to repeat what she had already done. To mimic what was already perfect. If her father could see her now, he too would be grinning to himself with pride. And she knew, deep down in her heart, he would be rooting for her. Always. Wherever he might be.

She peered into the windshield, seeing the target building from afar. The distance was closing. It was now or never.

*tires screeching*

"Go! Go! Go!"

…

* * *

 **Author's Comments/Notes:** This bit was inspired by the latest Invitational charm for Mira, "Mira's Family". It's quite insightful if you read up about it; I never expected Mira to be particularly close to her father, who seemed to be the only family she had. Maybe he had already passed away, and working as a cop and a mechanic was his daughter's idea of honoring his memory. I didn't feature the charm in this chapter, but I hope I managed to capture its spirit nonetheless.

It's time to feature our favorite soccer dad; the next chapter will focus on Lesion!


	12. Chapter 12 - Lesion

**.**

* * *

 **Liu "Lesion" Tze Long**

* * *

…

It's a little more than a week into Rainbow's 'field trip'. Once again, dusk had come, marking the end of yet another tedious 14 hours under Commander El Fassi's watch. For the people lodged at the Kasbah Sehkra Mania, now would be the time for rest and boredom.

Liu Tze Long, who was running late on his 'appointment' tonight, was not about to have either of that.

"Ow… Easy does it…"

He winced in pain when his bandaged foot touched the marble floor. He adjusted his posture, carefully this time, to make the next few steps more bearable. Then he popped open a medicine bottle from one of his shorts' pockets and swallowed a pill. Earlier today, he twisted his ankle thanks to a bad fall on the mountain obstacle course. Doctor Melnikova quickly rushed to his side and brought him to the ambulance, despite the latter's insistence that he was fine. He missed the better part of the day thanks to her; there was no way he would be sitting out the rest of it. The foot injury would probably put him out of action for a while, though. The checkups would likely be a regular thing until he fully healed. Mei Lin would certainly give him an earful for being so careless. To be fair, he wouldn't mind having the girl nag at him right about now.

At least it would distract him from his hands, which also had been shaking uncontrollably these past few days. The last time it happened was Operation Green Viper, almost a year ago.

"…Okay. Let's do this."

That mission proved that he was really accustomed to pain. Even before that, he had been shot, stabbed, smacked, and scalded quite a lot of times. The SAS put him through the wringer once upon a time, and he lived. And _even then_ , he survived a lot of close calls during his days working at the shipbreakers of Cheung Kwan O. Yet he kept going. It would be a disservice to his reputation if he started complaining about agony right now. Such a tempting thought, since he had to hobble on his own across the brightly-lit, drab hallways of the Fortress, then to the old tower stairs that connected the ground level to the second floor. Every step he took was an exercise of care and haste. Regardless of how his body ached, he sucked it up and acted normally, lest he attracted that gaze of his fellow Operators or the handful of GIGR staff making the rounds. He didn't need their attention. He didn't need their help.

And before he knew it, he arrived at his destination, located just a short stride away from the dormitories. The murmurs coming from the other side of the brick wall were promising, causing him to smile like a giddy schoolboy. His pockets were ready. His state of mind was right as rain, as usual. He placed one hand at the door knob and turned it…

…

"Yo, yo, yo _gweilo_! Anyone up for a game of-"

*tonk*

The jest was met by an empty water bottle, thrown from across the room.

"Shut up. I'm tryin' to nap 'ere.", said a man with a British accent.

James Porter was on a couch, legs propped up on a chair, and an arm over his face. The usual laidback and lively persona was absent, much to the Hong Konger's surprise - today's tests must have taken a huge toll for dear 'ol Jimmy to be down for the count. If that wasn't a convincing argument, the neatly-stowed pool cues and the tarp-covered pool table would definitely be one; it was rare for the games room to be this uneventful at night. On another couch beside James was a short-haired girl, sitting with earphones between her head, scribbling something on her notebook. She looked as deathly tired like the other man was.

"Do you have to be so loud?", Siu Mei Lin glared. "Also, that's the dumbest greeting I've ever heard."

"Come on, I need to set the mood!"

"We're exhausted. The Commander marched us back to the Fortress with a full combat load...", she mumbled, then did a double take to get a snarky point across. "…Oh wait, _you_ weren't there."

"Yeah. Caught a lucky break, ya barmy bastard.", James butted in.

They resented his leg injury, since that meant he had a free, express ticket down the mountain slopes in an ambulance. Of course, they didn't know about the stress he went through under the care of the GIGR's medics. A whole lot of prodding and questioning, since the usual painkillers were not working for him at all. Apparently, they didn't bother reading through his colorful medical file first…

"Look on the bright side!", Tze Long tried to lift their spirits. "At least the old man is not around to stop us tonight!"

He hoped that last clause would be enough to pique their interest, as El Fassi had forbidden any revelry in his 'house'. Tough luck for him, because the codger was unceremoniously summoned for an emergency meeting in Rabat, leaving nothing more than a skeleton crew to watch over the Team. But as much as the bandage-wearing man would want to get everyone in the mood, they simply weren't budging. James still laid on his couch, held up a hand and waved 'no', rather weakly. Mei Lin, meanwhile, refused to utter another word, and instead returned her attention to the notebook and the soft music on her earphones. Their day was done, as far as they were concerned.

This simply _would not_ do. The man didn't limp his way from the infirmary just to be turned down by those who agreed to tonight's game. The homebrew painkillers would be wearing off in a while. So, in light of his comrades' apparent inattention, he walked to the center of the room, then dragged with him the most reasonably-sized table he could find. It made a light screeching sound as the pegs scratched the surface of the rec-room's lacquered wooden floor. The boisterous Londoner and the rich girl-turned-cop soon found themselves staring at their friend, as if they were given little choice but to acquiesce to his request.

"What are ya doin'?", asked the former.

"You still owe me 50 quid, yes? I'm giving you a chance to win it back. With difficulty, of course."

He also pulled up three wooden stools from a corner, one for each player, right before settling to sit in the middle. Next, he pulled out the pack of cards that had been resting inside his back pocket this whole time, and started shuffling it. He chucked one card to each player, as if to begin the match in earnest without their permission. The two were amazed by his feistiness.

"Nickeling and diming yer mates? Never thought you'd stoop that low."

"Better that than be a chicken like you, James my old friend."

The half-hearted insult was enough to rile the other man from his couch, demanding a piece of the action. Or his skin.

"That's it, ya ponce. I'm in."

"Hah! That's the spirit!", he laughed, then turned his eyes to the other player. " _Meimei_ (little sister), how about you?"

She replied by looking at him with uninterested eyes, right before she shrugged and took off the earphones. She cast aside her notebook as well, realizing that there was no use stalling the whole thing. So far so good; one of them sorely needed to return to the infirmary, lest his condition worsened. Commander El Fassi might be returning anytime soon…

…

* * *

…

A good thirty minutes had gone by, with lots of cheers and laughs in between the toss of cards. For once, they were having fun in the dour, Spartan-like Fortress. True, there were worse places to be, but Tze Long could not wait to come back to England. It sounded like hogwash coming from someone who could endure almost anything. But even the humdrum day-to-day could get into anyone's nerves. as the SAS taught him. And taught him well, they did. He learned it was important that after every hardship, a person should be rewarded with some levity. To counteract the suffering, lest they be forever scarred by it. Hence, tonight's poker game, designed to help tired minds recharge and cope with the tedium.

It was down to the last set for each player. Nobody bothered to count how much their pot had grown at this point; Mei Lin was yet to contribute with her own cash. Tze Long brought out a toothpick and placed it between his lips, exuding a sense of dominance over his friends, much to their chagrin. He also did it to calm his nerves. Much as he wanted to keep playing, something was keeping him from fully enjoying the game.

His hands didn't stop shaking. His bandaged leg didn't stop throbbing. He knew exactly what they were: signs that his medicine was wearing off and he needed to visit the docs for another session. His body was begging him to ease up; rather than listen, he pressed on with the game, while hiding his handicap so that his friends would not worry about him. After each toss of the card, he quickly pressed his wrists against the table's edge and hide thee spasms. This also allowed him to hold his pieces closer to his chest - perhaps with this gesture, it would also make it seem like he was dead serious on winning this round.

"Hmph. I'm done.", the woman blurted out.

"Eh?"

"I have a bad hand… You guys win.", she sighed in disappointment. She was either telling the truth or she was bluffing.

"Only one way to find out!"

Showdown time. Mei Lin was the first to reveal her hand, who evidently accepted her defeat. She wasn't kidding when she was said she was dealt with a terrible combo: five different suites with only one ace. Then it was James's turn to show his cards. He went with it by smacking his lips and shaking his head in disappointment. It was a hard sell; he was actually confident that he was grasping at a winning suite. The obnoxious grin just made it all the more apparent, as did the sudden outburst from his voice.

"Three of a kind, buddy boy!"

The cockiness had returned to the chap. This was the other man's chance to steal the show and rub the salt on their faces.

"Ohoho… Full house.", He dropped the cards with a tap on the table.

The startled look from James was priceless, as did Mei Lin's blank stare of disbelief. Both images were picture-perfect, worthy of suffering the rest of night in a hospital bed. Tze Long was absolutely elated, knowing he just earned another 50 bucks in the bag, half from each player. He basked in his victory with an annoying laugh. He made a fist-pumping gesture and he shifted his seat. It was a careless move.

Both were enough to actually stretch a tendon in his right arm.

"Ow!"

The sudden jolt of pain from the limb sent him back to reality. It was not even the worst; the moment he moved his legs, he also felt a sudden, stabbing sensation on his bandaged ankle. He could not believe it; the medicine had worn off far sooner than he expected. One minute he was relishing the win from the poker, the next he was reeling from the agony his body could no longer hold at bay. Despite this, he still giggled like he just realized a bad joke. His face said it all: half-smiling and half-wincing, utterly confusing his buddies.

"Woah, you alright mate?"

"Yeah! Never felt better!"

Humor was sometimes the only refuge left for a resilient man.

"Bloody hell, is this like the thing in Macau?"

"Ow. Yeah… Yeah I think so, haha!"

"You know what that means, yeah?"

"There aren't any whorehouses out here in the desert, Jimmy!"

Now there was one story that he would gladly retell, if only to escape the pain that was wracking his body. Would've been a great alternative to the poker too, in hindsight. The two men laughed at the thought.

"What are you two talking about?", Mei Lin asked. The only woman in the room was out of the loop.

"Long story. Go ask him about it.", James tipped his chin.

She was about to open her mouth when Tze Long abruptly cut her off. He didn't want her to prod about Operation Green Viper when he was at his most vulnerable. More to the point, he didn't want her to worry. A good finger-wagging would be a better idea.

"Go get me my money first, _meimei_."

*tonk*

She replied by tossing a half-full bottle to his forehead, then left the room in a huff to get her wallet. Where on earth did that come from? The other man chuckled, taking her jab in stride.

As she left, silence quickly settled in the room, bringing the ambiance back from what they started with half an hour ago. Two men, both waiting for the other to break the ice. But not a lot of words were needed; the Brit already knew what was up. They had been through a lot to know that the man with the beady eyes and the strong body was exactly that: a man. A man with limits, which he was about to exceed tonight if he didn't let up.

"You should really get some help, mate."

"No need for that.", Tze Long spoke reassuringly. "I'll be fine. Promise."

First order of business would be to go to see the doctors again and give himself a good run through. There was no use insisting that he was fine, when all evidence had been saying the opposite. But that could come later. Tze Long had to keep up with the goofy and smiling face. It was not about making a show of how strong he was. It was about keeping with his positivity: a reliable source of cheer in trying times. Macau proved that, as did his time in Rainbow so far. This would surely take a toll on his health sooner or later, but the man had already resigned himself to this fate. And he was willing to see it through.

"It's yer funeral...", James shrugged.

He was resilient. He was accustomed to pain. He had gone through so many hardships that it would be a darn disgrace for him to show weakness right now. And he endured them all without anyone's help; there was no point breaking that winning streak right so soon. Though, perhaps it might be high time for him to take things a wee bit slower from this moment on, lest he'd soon find himself sitting on the sidelines. Irrelevance: that frightened him more than the pain. Someone should always keep a happy face in these parts. Someone should always remind the Team to be human, every once in a while.

"…Let's clean up this mess eh?"

"Right."

…

*blam*

The door to the games room suddenly swung open as they were stacking the cards. Tze Long turned to the noise, but James was the first to blurt out.

"Oi, Finka. What's going on?"

Red-haired, stern faced, and flanked by two more of their comrades. For a moment there, the Hong Konger thought he was about to be dragged downstairs to the infirmary, to be chained to the bed until further notice. But there was a… 'different' sense of urgency in the doctor's eyes. This was something else.

"You didn't hear?", she raised an eyebrow. "A cargo ship has been hijacked off the coast."

"What!?"

James followed their friends into the briefing room, which was just next door to where they held their game. Something was up. The other man followed suit and hobbled his way, as much as it annoyed him. Already, a few other Operators were inside the furbished command center, kitted out with the hundreds of tech components Team Rainbow brought with them from hundreds of miles away. A projector in the middle of the room was playing a live, satellite feed. There was a giant red blip in the middle of the screen; 'off the coast' was a bit of a misnomer, as the blip was actually more than a hundred kilometers northwest from Morocco's nearest shoreline. The words 'Situation: in progress' were displayed in the top left corner of the feed.

Was this the reason why Commander El Fassi was recalled from his post tonight?

"When did this happen?", Tze Long asked again.

"An hour ago.", Lera replied. "GIGR and the Moroccan Navy are already scrambling to assist Rainbow."

"What are you talking about? We're still here."

When she said 'Rainbow', the first thought that came to mind was that of the Team here in the Fortress. He couldn't have been so wrong. On the screen was a helicopter, in its lonesome, making its way at full speed to the cargo ship's current location. It bore the identity code of an aircraft belonging to the British Royal Air Force.

"Hereford was called in… Blackbeard is leading a response team."

…

* * *

 **Author's Comments/Notes:** I thought I'd do something less training-oriented with Lesion's chapter, and instead use this opportunity to explore his friendship with Smoke. Unused voicelines say they both love playing poker so I thought that was something they'd also do after a stressful day. I also like to think that Lesion is in good terms with Ying, so I added her here, though in hindsight I suppose I could've also picked somebody else (was thinking about Thatcher at one point).

Just an FYI: I'm nearing the end of my series. Blackbeard is next, followed by Dokkaebi, and a secret character. They're going to be relatively shorter because I want to complete this particular story before May.


	13. Chapter 13 - Blackbeard

**Note:** Chapter 14 of my "Freedom Day" story is referenced here. Feel free to check it out again to get the full picture, but I added just enough context for those who don't want to read through it.

* * *

 **Craig "Blackbeard" Jenson**

* * *

…

*ringing noise*

Craig held the cellphone close to his ear, eagerly waiting for someone to pick up on the other end. He was greeted by a chirpy female, bringing a little smile to his masked face. The next second, it shifted to a curl of disappointment.

"Hi! You've reached the Jenson residence. We're not home right now, so please leave a message after the beep!"

*beep*

Rather than heed the instruction, he instead closed the device and tucked it away into his front pouch. He thought the guys back home wouldn't be out in this hour; he should've known better. It was a Sunday in Bellevue – they could be at the lake, the park, or seeing the movies. 'Better luck next time', he mentally said to himself. So much for imparting one last word with the ones he cherished on the eve of battle. At least he tried his best.

"Two minutes, lads.", the pilot announced, speaking in an English accent.

Craig looked at his wristwatch to clock it in, then nodded to the bloke with the flight helmet in reply. He then put up his right hand for the cabin to see, communicating with the rest of his team non-verbally. The loud chopping of the rotor blades made it difficult to talk like normal, and the airwaves had been reserved for incoming radio calls. Luckily, everyone else got his message well - it was time to put their game faces on. He could only imagine the looks behind their masks, all serious and composed, awaiting the red light to turn green and the rappelling line to be spooled out of the fuselage.

They had done this many times before, whether simulated or for real. None more so than the former Navy SEAL, who sat in the RAF helo's cabin with a stoic expression and a hand over his scoped SR-25, perhaps for the umpteenth time. Once again the famed 'Blackbeard' was out in sea, riding in the pitch blackness of night. No rain this time around, only the sounds of rough seas and the cloudy skies were masking his aircraft's advance. His teammates were a collection of pros not unlike those he'd served with in Afghanistan and elsewhere. Foreigners. His job was to lead them into a mission of high import where the chance of death was substantial. His opposition… didn't matter. At the end of the day, they're all bad guys who needed to be put down. Not just out of sense of what was right, but also because of the simple fact that they'd kill his people on sight if given the chance.

"Alpha-One this is Switchbo*static*, do you read?", the headset came to life with another female voice.

This time, though, his smile lasted longer. It was Meghan, radioing him all the way from England, hence the slight background interference.

"Check, Switchboard. Send it."

"Drones reported no movement at the top deck and the bridge… Thermals not giving us a twenty on combatants and civvies either…"

"Any good news?", he sighed.

"An RMN flottila's speeding your way, but they're ten mikes (minutes) out. Kaid recommends you maintain a holding pattern half a klick west of the 'X' to link-up for a combined insert, how copy?"

Craig scoffed at the message. He wanted to tell the blonde woman that he'd already considered that option less than half an hour ago. Too late to hang back now. The stakes were clear, and he and his team were about to go all-in. Besides, the plan was already set in stone; changing it now would only screw with everyone's prepping. Rules of engagement remained the same: shoot anyone with gun, cuff everybody else, sweep all decks for unwanted surprises.

It was nice to hear from Meghan again, though, so there was that.

"Negative, we got this.", he replied to her. "We delay any longer, the tangos will have more than enough time to rob the ship dry and scram."

"Your call, Alpha. Remember: go in quiet with drones; we don't know what's waiting for you down there. We also have assets at the Atlas Fort we can still commit, if you like."

"Thatcher's boys won't get here in time, Valk. Tell 'em we can take it from here, over."

"*sigh* Lima Charlie (Loud and clear). We'll keep eyes *static* from our end with the UAVs and-"

The abrupt pause caused some concern.

"Valk?"

"…"

"Switchboard, this is Alpha-One. Do you monitor?"

"Sorry about that. Gotta put you on hold, Craig; I've got the Moroccan Defense Minister on the horn. Priority message."

 _Great._

"Check. Get back to you in a minute."

The line closed soon after, prompting Craig to lean back on his seat with slightly higher spirits. While it wasn't a good sign that the bigwigs in Rabat were also pitching in, he was content with the fact that their comrades in Rabat and Hereford were still watching over them. Over _him_. If only such sentiment would also up the odds of survival for the men and women he was riding with. Truth be told, the Team had to scramble tonight since their intel was only about a few hours old. There was a chance that they would coming in woefully unprepared for the fight ahead.

With another sigh to calm his nerves, Craig peered out of the window and set his eyes on their destination, which was rapidly approaching thanks to the helicopter's haste. The sleek, black profile was unmistakable: a container ship fresh out of Sydney Harbor, staying the course of its usual shipping route across the Indian Ocean and over to Africa's west coast. It was supposed to arrive at Amsterdam later this week, hopefully with no fuss. That changed when the ship declared an SOS earlier tonight, reported that it was boarded by a group of heavily-armed men. Pirates, by the sounds of it. By some stroke of bad luck, the usual patrols from the Royal Moroccan Navy were preoccupied with other matters, so the call fell upon the elite Operators of Team Rainbow standing by in England.

Old news. Having spent considerable time with the Fifth Fleet, Craig was used to these kinds of last-minute calls, to these times where they had to pick up the slack for other people. Honestly, the Navy didn't hold a candle to the kind of crunch-time that Rainbow seemed to love. 'Overworked' and 'understaffed' could only begin to describe what the people in this outfit go through on a regular basis. Should one half of the world would be in a perpetual state of emergency, the other half would put its collective fingers in its ears. Tonight wasn't all different.

Well, except for one thing. There was something troubling the fabled 'Blackbeard' as of late. A veteran of ten years and counting, one of the SEALs' best and brightest, as well as their latest contribution to the global fight against terror. Tonight, it felt like he was out of his game. His last mission had nearly killed him. For the first time in God-knows-how-long he was feeling something he thought he had already overcome.

Fear.

"One minute.", the pilot announced again.

His teammates started checking their gear. Following suit, Craig cleared his rifle's action, ensured his mag was topped off, and checked that his ACOG was working and properly zeroed. Next, he pulled out a Ballistic Rifle Shield from his pack and snapped it onto his weapon. He figured that if the bad guys fired at him first, he would be grateful to have one of these panes of bulletproof glass to save his sorry butt. If only, since they had the bullet-carrying capacity of wet tissue paper in a paintball game. The mission in France a few months ago made that abundantly clear.

His heart skipped a beat when the memories flooded back. Courchevel, France: Rainbow sent a team to investigate a Chalet they suspected of being a terrorist safehouse. He and his team were rappelling, holding an angle on the second floor. He was looking into the interior, nothing more than fancy furniture and a dim room. Then, came a flash and a shot from out nowhere. It hit him center-mass, stopped only by a few inches of reinforced glass and another layer of ceramic armor on his chest rig. He could still feel the phantom pain of shards and shrapnel piercing his skin, missing his trauma plate by just a few centimeters. The bullet disintegrated into dozens of pieces, sending more projectiles to the unprotected spots of his chest. It happened so fast and so unexpectedly, Craig had to let go of his rappelling rope, causing him to unto a patch of snow. Whoever the shooter was, he had a good bead on him.

One slip. All it took was one slip and lapse in judgement, and he would've been dead twice over. It could happen again, tonight. The prospect had dawned on him since he set foot onto the helo. He didn't want his teammates to see his dread.

His father always said that fear was something people could never erase. It was a natural response, a fight-or-flight mechanism that a healthy human body was _supposed_ to experience. Rather than stamp it out, people should instead learn how to control it. To keep it from impeding their movement, to use it to concentrate harder for the task at hand. Every SEAL had taken that lesson to heart very well. In Craig's case, he just wanted to be reminded of it again. A phone call to an old man or an elderly lady, anything to keep his resolve strong.

 _One more time…_

He pulled out his cellphone again and tapped into the screen. He had one more minute. One more chance to make that call. One more opportunity to set his mind at ease.

*ringing noise*

"Hi! You've reached the Jenson residence! We're not home right now, so-"

*click*

Foiled a second time. It finally dawned on him that his efforts were futile.

He peered out of the window again. The cargo ship grew nearer and nearer, as the helicopter continued its flight path. Soon, the distance between them was a little more than a couple hundred feet. Craig could see clearly into the ship's windows; some were boarded up, some weren't. None of them had any occupants inside, save for the usual furniture and doodads one could expect from any vessel. It was as if the ship had been abandoned. He knew better. At this range, anyone looking out of deck of that ship would see them, clear as day. Fifty-fifty chance that a stream of gunfire would hammer their fuselage any minute. Tension in his blood bubbled, waiting in bated breath for the slightest sign of danger.

Time was running out. Soon, the helo would reach the insertion point. The red light inside the cabin would turn green, and the crew chief would throw out the assault line. Then would come the rapid descent into the decks and the synchronized movements of trained professionals, checking their corners. Guns raised and eyes aimed through scope reticles, waiting for the din of battle to bombard their senses. Craig knew these weren't healthy thoughts to ponder about. So, going against the wishes of a dear friend, he turned on his radio again and pressed into the call button a second time. He needed to put his mind at ease.

"Switchboard, this is Alpha."

"..."

"Switchboard, this is Alpha. Are you there?"

"Go Alpha.", Meghan replied. "We got *static* on your signal."

Craig took a deep breath. He normally wouldn't do something as selfish such as this. He lowered his voice, so as to not get his comrades' attention.

"...I couldn't reach my folks back home, Meg. Would you... uh..."

At that moment, the woman instantly knew what he was going on about.

"Good grief... Knock it off, man. That's bad luck."

"Consider it an I-O-U.", he humored her.

A few eyes turned to his direction, pondering why he was speaking in hushed tones. It was better that they didn't, lest his worries affect them as well.

It was shameful to admit that, at least tonight, he was not the soldier he was lauded. Ever since his brush with death, he was harboring doubts over his ability to fight and lead, which he covered with a veneer of bravado. Self-doubt was unbecoming of him, as the mind was quick to say. He was trying his best to overcome it. He would win, but first he needed to vent. And lucky for him, the woman on the radio understood him well enough.

A keeper.

"Just… Just keep your frogman on, brother.", Meghan continued. "You'll be fine."

"Heh. Check that."

 _'Brother' eh?_

"30 seconds.", the pilot announced a final time, once again speaking in his posh accent. "Radio check. Go to secure channel."

The helicopter finally arrived to its destination: the bow of the cargo ship which was just large enough to accommodate the imminent rappel. As the Operators readied their guns, the cabin's crimson light turned into a bright viridian, signaling them to ready for the upcoming descent. Craig, being the nearest at the cabin door, aimed with his SR-25 to provide overwatch, ready to fire at any of the windows his crosshairs rested on. Whatever issues he had at the moment, they needed to take a backseat for now.

He could make that phone call later.

"Green light! Go! Go! Go!"

The nearest Operator beside him grabbed the assault line and prepared to rappel down. As soon as she did, however, Craig felt something hit his shield.

*crack*

A bullet had whizzed into it, marking it with a distinct pockmark. He was taken aback by the sudden shot. He didn't see where it came from. Was it through the upper decks? The lifting crane? The bridge on the other side? He processed these thoughts in a split-second, as any good soldier should. He had a reputation to his surprise, the fear was gone. At least for the time being. It had been replaced by something else: grit.

"Taking fire. Taking fire.", he calmly radioed into his headset. "Team, prep for hot insert!"

His comrades were slightly rattled by the errant gunshot. But the assault must push through. For all of their sakes, the team leader reinforced his nerves with untapped vigor. His heart was pounding. His legs were tense. The battle, long-delayed, had finally begun.

He was determined to see it through. For now, 'Blackbeard' was back.

…

* * *

 **Author's Comments/Notes:** This chapter is long overdue, as I got several requests for Blackbeard when I was writing the first part of "Behind the Mask" back in 2016, but I never got around it. I think it's because I never played much Blackbeard to begin with; I seriously hated fighting against him when he was released during Dust Line (a shield with hundreds of HP? Screw that!). That said, I feel kinda bad to see how far he has fallen over the years, so I finally to put him here.

Coming up is Dokkaebi. :)


	14. Chapter 14 - Dokkaebi

**.**

* * *

 **Grace "Dokkaebi" Nam**

* * *

…

"…Bridge secure."

"Check that. Bravo, continue your sweep portside – we'll rendezvous on the second deck. Alpha-Two, cover our rear. Three, Four, on me to the stairwell."

"Affirmative."

" _Jawohl_ (You got it)."

Grace listened closely to the radio chatter, trying to make sense of what the monitors were showing her tonight. There she stood, fixing her glasses and joining a few other Operators in their distinctive black uniforms. All of them were watching the action unfold, like they were spectators of a ball game, broadcast live. The group had an overhead view of a four-man squad, marked as green blips on a grayscale blueprint, navigating a labyrinth of halls and doors while a digital timer ticked on. Leading them was a brawny guy with a shielded rifle, navigating tight corridors in search of an exit. The ship had a claustrophobic layout so they had to move at a brisk pace, carefully checking their flanks along the way. The bad guys could literally be waiting behind every corner, waiting for a chance to pounce them.

If only Jenson and his men knew how many hostiles had hijacked the ship. If only they had more time to prepare and to reconnoiter. If only Grace was there to lend them a hand… it would only take one swipe of the screen and a few button presses to work her magic, after all.

Seconds went by and the radio chatter continued, listened closely by keen pairs of ears inside the Fortress's command center. One of them belonged to Mike Baker, the senior-most person present in both rank and age. Another was Masaru Enatsu, being so uncharacteristically industrious tonight, who was keeping a watchful eye on the overhead feeds, perhaps more than most. The former heard Jenson's report, prompting him to grab a headset and lower the microphone close to his lips. The latter, on the other hand, motioned something to the old man, like he found something of interest on his own screen. Curious as a cat, Grace tipped her toes a bit to see what they were up to. She saw that they were reviewing the ship's blueprints, and it seemed like they had a sudden epiphany to share with the troops on the ground.

"Blackbeard, this is Thatcher. Do you read?"

"Wilco. Send it."

"The records room is on the second deck, left-side at the end of the main corridor.", he relayed Masa's message. "Retrieve the cargo manifest from there if you can. We need to know what these bastards are after."

"Well, ain't that rich.", Jenson complained. "Let me guess, the shipping company's keeping their mouths shut?"

"Their lawyers are stonewalling, said we don't have the bloody right to know what their ship was carrying tonight."

A riddle for the ages. The Australian vessel was hijacked by a rather diligent band of pirates, out prowling the seas at this hour. They came in droves, not just one or two tug boats' worth of people. That was the first red flag: the baddies had brought in too much manpower to wrest control of a single unarmed, unprotected cargo vessel. They bargained for far too much trouble, risked far too many lives, just for one big score. Nobody in their right mind would be this ballsy, unless they were looking for something _specific_ inside of that ship. And judging by the shipping company's obstructive behavior, all signs pointed to the word 'contraband'.

"Check that. Snatch the manifest in the records room."

"Flag it as a secondary; main objective remains neutralizing all hostiles aboard. Over and out."

Grace's curiosity was definitely piqued this time. The green blips continued to move, mirroring their conversation. For now, she could do nothing but to observe in silence, be a spectator. Arms crossed with a thumb resting under her chin, the skunk-haired woman also tapped her right foot incessantly, anxious and frustrated. Her mind pointed out one crucial detail: this thing she was watching... it was happening right now a few miles west, off the coast. Team Rainbow was conducting a combat mission. A _real_ mission, not like the crude mock-fights and crappy virtual simulations she had been immersing herself since she joined. A newbie by rights, but she still hated being left behind. She hated it even more that this whole 30-day field trip had happened, depriving her of a chance to prove herself to her betters. The more she watched the action, the more she wanted to step up to the plate. Just then, she finally found the courage to speak.

"I could help them, Baker.", she went on. "Tell them to reactivate the wi-fi so I can patch into the ship's camera network."

Of course, the old man scoffed and replied with a typical drawl. He did not even bother to look at her in the eye. "No funny ideas, lass. Six ordered us to hang back."

"What are you saying? They do not have eyes inside the ship! They could be walking into a trap!"

"And _you_ should be using your head.", he sternly replied. "You do realize the ship's too far for your fancy hacks to work, yeah? We're gonna need a signal booster to keep you connected."

"I agree. Jenson's team is nowhere near the server room anyway…", Masaru offered another counterpoint. "…And besides, they still have their drones with them for recon, yes? Valkyrie is also keeping a close eye with the UAV..."

Grace frowned in reply. First the old man, now this guy too? They brushed off her idea as quickly as it formed in her head, like they didn't even bother weighing the pros and cons. She glared at them, disappointed that they were content to be bystanders for their friends. A few seconds later, more gunshots resounded in the speakers, accentuated by even more blips of light on the screen. There was nary a gasp or whimper from the audience. To Grace, their demeanor was teetering close to indifference, at least on the outside. It was so similar to the reason why she left home in the first place. She clenched her hands into fists, away from their gaze, with frustration bubbling. Like she left the Tigers to find a better use of her talents, only to end up someplace just as bad.

They didn't understand her, even after what she and her team did at Seoul, all those months ago. Any self-respecting genius would easily connect the dots, especially for someone who had been through her fair share of anti-piracy work. Grace could definitely do some good, if only her colleagues had more faith in her. After this exchange, she would relish the chance to prove them wrong even more.

*beep*

And speak of the devil. The PDA tucked into Grace's back pocket suddenly vibrated with a faint chime. She took the device and swiped its screen, immediately encountering a wall of Hangeul text. Reading through it slowly brought a wry smile on her face. Her plea of help from her fellow whizz kids in Yongsan had just been granted. 'Plan B'. If Rainbow wouldn't let her do her thing, then she would do it without their permission. She only needed to get her laptop to begin in earnest.

"Excuse me…", she mumbled to her colleagues, squeezing herself past their shoulders.

She made haste to leave the room, away from the men who had just shot her down, to grab the portable computer in the dormitory next to the command center. A few eyes glanced at her along the way, curious about her strange behavior. Grace ignored them. She mumbled self-motivations as she took the laptop bag from the shelf beside her bunk, then made her way downstairs to find a quiet place to work in. For every step she made, her mind repeated the discouraging words said to her by Baker and Masaru. She brushed them off, reciprocating their earlier sentiment. They should've known better; this hellion would never volunteer to anything if she knew she couldn't pull it off in the first place.

To think that Team Rainbow would give her the same treatment she experienced in the Tigers. And before that, there was her school. Then her peers. It was like the whole world was hellbent on telling her she couldn't live up to her own hype. Her résumé and the missions on her belt would say otherwise. At this point, she was better off accepting the fact that no matter where she went, there would always be detractors who would pull her down, even if it wasn't their earnest intention to do. And with detractors come opportunities to put them to shame.

This 'Plan B' would do just the trick. She had done it before in Seoul, Inchon, and other places where her sleuthing skills were called upon. Tonight would be just another opportunity. Her train of thought halted when she returned to reality. So immersed with self-praise and pride in her mind, she suddenly found herself at the cafeteria, located some ways on the first floor of the Fortress. Grace could work in peace. Taking a deep breath, she cracked her knuckles and found the best spot she could lay her eyeglasses on.

There was nobody here at this hour, save for a random guy manning the bar counter - or at least what could pass off as one in a military installation.

"Alright…"

She pulled up a stool and plopped her bag on a table, taking out the laptop from its pouch. Alongside it was a wireless connector and a portable modem, both of which would allow her to use the Korean Army's Cybershield Network in Yongsan for her own purposes. Soon after, she filled her mind with a long, mental list of steps that would guide her next actions. Subroutines, bypass methods, code sequences, the works. Baker was right in saying that they needed a signal booster. The codger thought he was soooo smart; if the Fortress lacked a signal booster, naturally the next best thing would be to _borrow_ one.

And just her luck: there was one in Tangier as her PDA indicated, just a few dozen miles from where the ship-boarding action was currently taking place. The tower belonged to a telecommunications company, whose name and net worth didn't mean squat to the four-eyed goblin. She could wrest control of their signal booster using the Cybershield's digital infrastructure. Her time to shine again was nigh. A hacking subroutine was in order, one that would certainly be branded as theft if she got caught. She was too smart for that. Her defence this 'theft' would help her friends retake the hijacked cargo ship.

"Excuse me?", she called to the bartender. "Can I have a soda please?"

The tan-skinned man, with his back turned, simply gave her a quick thumbs-up.

Grace began to work, opening dialogue boxes, firing up a few programs - only stopping to adjust her glasses or to sip her soda. Her eyes scanned left to right in rapid succession, digesting every bit of code as fast as her fingers could type. Thanks to her friends back home, she had the right tools to obtain admin-level access to the signal booster's processes. And with that access, she planted a backdoor to the device, allowing her to momentarily seize from its owners and give her free reign to do with as she willed. A progress bar started to appear alongside of wall of fast-scrolling code. A few seconds later, an icon on her computer popped up, indicating a successful breach. It caused another smile to form on her lips. Her "fancy hack" was done in less than ten minutes, outdoing herself yet again. She didn't even break a sweat; the silence in the cafeteria had done wonders for her concentration.

She threw her hands up and exclaimed in victory. She couldn't wait to head back to the command center, with her laptop on hand, and rub it to their face just how wrong they were to doubt her. _Especially_ to a certain couple of men who thought her idea would never work. Relishing the win, she didn't notice that another man had entered the cafeteria. A supposed kindred spirit, with his messy hair and narrow eyes, much like hers.

"I thought I would see you here, Grace.", Masaru called to her.

His hands were on his pockets, laidback as ever. It was also the gesture of a man who wanted to humble himself for an apology, which she could clearly see on his face. The woman was unimpressed however, vividly recalling his dismissive words from a few minutes ago.

"Oh. Here to "back me up" again are you?", she jeered. "By all means! That'll be soooo courteous of you."

"I did not intend to talk you down."

"But you still did it. And here I am, thinking we were buddies."

He walked towards her to pull up a chair, but her look of thinly-veiled disdain made it clear that she didn't want his company. She wanted an apology, something that this fellow nerd would be too proud to give. The look on his face made it clear that he was a bit ashamed of what he said earlier. As he should. Instead of acquiescing, he glanced at her laptop and hacking gear, connecting the dots by himself.

"Baker had a point, my friend. We needed a signal booster, and that would mean asking for permission from Six. But you still went on with it anyway. Stealing."

" _Borrowing._ ", she corrected him. "I'm not stealing data or bandwidth, or anything..."

"*sigh* We would have more lawyers to deal with thanks to you. Nice work."

Grace chortled to his face. So what? It's not as if she would be overloading the circuits with her hack. She only needed the signal booster as an intermediary; everything else was done through her laptop and the server that her friends let her borrow for a while. And she made sure not to leave behind crumbs for anyone to follow. She wasn't stupid. More to the point, she did this to make sure that Jenson's team would get all the help they needed. Another look on her laptop screen proved that she did a good job: a series of CCTV feeds from the cargo ship.

Thanks to her, Jenson and his men would now know the number of hostiles who hijacked the ship. They no longer needed to search for that cargo manifest; the ship's cameras would do it for them. No more need for extra caution in lieu of lackluster prepping; one girl's "fancy hacks" had already done their magic. The list of benefits went on and on in her head, metaphorically patting her back.

"But as you can see, you're too late to stop me. Looks like I've won.", she quipped with a smirk.

"Yeah yeah. That's why Baker told me to give you this."

Masaru brought out something from his pocket. A wi-fi device, so that her laptop can synchronize with the monitors on the command center upstairs, to give everyone the camera footage she boasted she could provide. The thought caused Grace to smile even more sheepishly, which was contrasted by the wearied look on the other man. What she just accomplished would certainly be of great help tonight, but would also land them in hot, legal waters in the future. It didn't matter that Baker would give her a mouthful of harsh words later. She would be more than happy to point out that she used her head.

"Don't you change. Ever.", he sighed.

"Pfft. What's that supposed to mean?"

Rather than answer her question, Masaru shook his head and walked away. The typical reaction of a critic who was resoundingly humbled. Or perhaps that of a frustrated colleague who realized that his advise had been for naught. Either way, it was a win for the woman who was out to prove herself to her peers. She took another sip on her soda, relishing every second of her success. The repercussions, whatever they were, could come later; she would be waiting for them. That's just who she was. That's just what Team Rainbow had to contend with, moving forward.

...

"It means you be yourself...", another male voice spoke out. "...You just be ready for the consequences."

Her eyes darted to her side. It was the bartender, with his back turned.

"Eavesdropping much?", Grace replied.

She didn't appreciate anyone trying to pull her down, even if it wasn't their intention. Especially if the one talking was a random stranger who butted in from out of the blue. Grace, rather childishly, started to size the man up for a tirade of her own making. She had just proved one detractor wrong, she was more than ready to dish out the same words to another. But then she paused. There was something about this man's accent that... unnerved her, despite her high spirits.

"Sorry, but... you remind me of a young woman.", the man went on. "Smart, self-confident... She acted _exactly_ like you did."

He turned around, showing his face to her. His appearance was nondescript, yet vaguely familiar. A grey polo shirt, a pair of drab trousers, and an apron that befitted his trade. He had a stubble on his lips, a youthful expression in his copper-like complexion. And his glasses were quite simple too.

"Wait. Do I know you…?", her words trailed on.

"I believe so. You hacked into our system a few months ago, remember?"

She searched her mind for an answer. Then, it dawned on her. The smugness on her face soon disappeared, replaced by a gasp of surprise and a wide pair of eyes.

"…Harry?"

…

* * *

 **Author's Comments/Notes:** After watching "The Hammer and The Scalpel" short film, Dokkaebi really struck me as someone eager to prove herself by doing things her way. She's creative and confident, but easily frustrated when people doubt her skills. I like that she's a free spirit, though I nonetheless gave a slight devil-may-care attitude here to be in line with my portrayal of her in Freedom Day. I didn't delve much into the hacking segment this time, but I still hope it worked out alright.

And so, we're about to go to the last chapter. If you've read Part One of this story, it's quite obvious who's the next character is gonna be. ;)


	15. Chapter 15 - Harry (FINAL)

**.**

* * *

 **Harishva "Harry" Pandey**

* * *

…

Leather shoes pattered across the hallway, as one man followed the lead of a lithe woman in military clothes. His attire, on the other hand, was not what her comrades would say as 'appropriate'- just a simple shirt and a pair of trousers as a tourist would don. Underdressed for the field, as Aurelia always jabbed. Perhaps the only apt accessory was the scarf wrapped around his neck. The thin beard certainly did not give him any favors for the heat, nor the slightly curly hair that crowned his head. The rimless eyeglasses didn't command a demanding presence either, but it's what the missus picked for him.

None of that mattered tonight. It'd been a while since Harry met with everyone.

"Seriously? You were staying at the Fortress this whole time?", Grace Nam asked while she walked ahead.

"Only since yesterday; I apologize for coming without notice.", he politely replied. "You could say this was a spur-of-the-moment visit."

A little lie. He originally planned to personally assess how Commander El-Fassi was acclimatizing with his new colleagues: the more than a dozen individuals who were all lodged at his own 'house'. His unforeseen departure for an important meeting in the Capitol had put a spanner in the works. Also, Harry had been window shopping for a second base that Team Rainbow could use, a home away from home. The _Kasbah Sekria Mania_ here in the Atlas Mountains looked like an interesting prospect, but he never had the chance to experience its hospitality firsthand. Both of these objectives gave him good cause to do a quaint little undercover mission of his own. It had so far achieved favorable results.

"I don't believe you, sir. This field trip was _your_ idea from the start, wasn't it?"

"Field trip? …Oh right! Well, the exercises were meant to expose you to unfamiliar territory, considering how dynamic our mission profile had become… Though, I certainly didn't plan for us to respond to an SOS tonight."

"Tch. Riiiiight…", she scoffed in reply. "…If that's the case, why did Six send in the guys in England, huh? Me, Chul Kyung… the rest of us here could've done the mission with no trouble. She should've known we're nearest to the coast."

Harry remained silent, for he did not want to give her any ideas to what was happening behind the scenes. At least not yet. Besides, the girl's privy ears would not take it well if she had known that that she and her fellow newbloods were not yet cleared for duty, on account of being fresh off the boat. Sure their dossiers would tell a different story, that they were indeed the best of the best that their governments could offer, but the fact remained they were still ill-equipped for the kindss of danger the Team was intimately familiar with. Hostile environments, rugged terrain, asymmetric warfare… This little outing in Morocco was meant to ease their transition.

Though, that was not the _only_ reason. This whole thing with the White Masks… it proved to be a lot more complicated than Harry and Aurelia originally thought. As the former had feared, the attacks in America had finally begun to resonate with the rest of the world, emboldening others to sow fear as they saw fit. And tonight's hijacking proved that things were about to get worse. From masked psychos to daring pirates, every enemy imaginable would be Rainbow's prey from now on. The months ahead would be a lot more taxing, that much was certain. Not only for the Team, but also for the ones paying their bills. It suddenly made more sense for Barton and Sweeney to snoop on them...

…

"Here we are.", Grace announced to Harry. "Do you want me to tell them you're here, or…?"

They stopped just a few feet short of the entrance to the command center. Faint noises were coming from the other side, radio chatter and ambient noise, which meant that the rescue op was still underway. Harry was tempted to pray for his men's success, but that would just be repeating what he had already been doing. He shouldn't be too worried, the optimist in him assured. Jenson and his guys were up for the task. They had to be, otherwise the good doctor himself wouldn't have recruited them in the first place.

Grace reached out to the doorknob, but Harry smiled at her and bid her to stop. He didn't feel worthy of the courtesy. On the contrary, he believed he should be the one doing the honors, as a simple token of appreciation for what the best warriors on the planet put themselves through every day. So he went in first, making as little noise as possible. He didn't want to interrupt everyone on the other side, who were no doubt spectating the action on their monitors.

*creak*

"Positive ID, Switchboard. I say again, positive ID…", a male voice, presumably Jenson's, announced over the speakers. "…Scanners tell us the ship's carrying a stockpile of uranium… at least a couple hundred metric tons of it. Cargo's not listed on the manifest."

Those in the command center murmured to each other, hiding their shock or subtly expressing it. The report was spine-chilling indeed, if the likes of Mike Baker would give himself pause. Erik Thorn, as expected, analyzed the results as they came without flinching. Emmanuelle Pichon was similarly perturbed, but hid her dread with an unseemly joke to Detective Morowa Evans. Liu Tse Long and Siu Mei Lin whispered in their native tongue, giving themselves privacy from the company of supposed-friends. Everyone else behaved as their natures and demeanor dictated. All of them remained professional about it, as one could expect from the best of the best. The very best that the world could offer, to answer the call of duty.

Hopefully, they would be enough to stop what was about to come. The reality was clear: Rainbow had just stopped a band of pirates from getting their hands on nuclear material. To what end? That would be an inquiry that would surely step in a lot of toes. And this would just be the beginning. Chemical weapons were one thing, but the horror of something ubiquitous, yet so powerful, falling into the wrong hands would be enough to strike fear in the bravest of hearts. While his face remained unchanged, Harry frantically made a few mental notes, dictating his steps over the next few days. It was high time for him to double-time it with the cross checks and interviews, find more talent to add into the roster so that Rainbow could cover _all_ of its bases. The CBRN Threat Unit would have to be reassessed as well, their numbers expanded if need be, now that the prospect of rogue nukes had just been realized tonight. And Aurelia would have to brush elbows with quite a number of bigwigs, get them to bankroll this whole operation for Sweeney and his friends.

The last bit was rather dour to even contemplate; Rainbow's time in America had consequences both unintended and undeserved. Harry took a good look at men and women in front of him: grizzled or colorful individuals, donning black uniforms and pistol holsters, hailing from different cultures and walks of life, each a formidable soldier and an expert at their field, united by their desire to protect the innocent from the wicked. Their faces spoke volumes about who they were and how they would face the enemy that was previewed to them. All focused and unflinching, despite what their body language would otherwise tell. And the man who brought them all here was doubly proud to see them gathered under one roof. They all had big shoes to fill. They all deserved better.

"Check that, Alpha. Hazmat is confirmed on-site…", acknowledged a female voice over the horn.

The accent clearly belonged to Meghan Castellano, presumably overseeing the operation from her office in Hereford.

"…Mark the container with a tracking strobe, then link up with Bravo for extraction… Hazmat units are one minute out."

"Check. Marking the cargo now, headed topside for extract."

"Understood. To all callsigns: we are Code White. Repeat, Code White. All objectives complete, proceed to primary rendezvous and stand-by for RTB (return to base)."

A collective sigh of relief escaped from the spectators. The mission was finally over. The joy was short-lived, however, judging from the banter that followed. Tonight was a reality check for everyone. Mere months after the White Masks struck, and now it was back in business for all players involved: heroes and villains. Those who fought in America knew the score well. Those who didn't, they realized tonight was but a tidbit of the action they could be expecting soon. One could only assume what was going in their heads while the facts slowly dawned on them. They were probably anxious, excited, and frustrated in equal measure. Nuclear weapons... Harry never thought he'd be pitting his people against such horrors, so soon.

He crossed his arms and held back a sigh. He should take care not to put himself in their shoes too much. But he wasn't a soldier or a cop like them. He didn't jump out of airplanes or dodged bullets for a living. And unlike Aurelia, he most certainly never harmed another human being even out of self-preservation. No, he was a theorist. A thinker. A doctor. And in a few months' time, he would be something more.

"Ahem!", Grace suddenly blurted out.

She immediately got everyone's attention, compelling them to turn their eyes to the door. They very nearly chastised her for the inappropriate outburst, but they quickly paused – they were stunned to see one of their own in the company of a man they never thought would be visiting them tonight. Some mouths left gaping; others were better controlled. The feisty Korean, on the other hand, was smiling from ear to ear. She purposely made her voice louder – a low-key way to embarrass her guest to the rest of the gang.

"D… Doctor Pandey?"

"Harry? What the hell?"

The questions came quickly. The answer they got was a humble smile, the same thing that the man greeted them with on the very first time their paths crossed. It was a bit awkward being singled out in the crowd all of the sudden, but Harry kept his cool. This was no time to be lily-livered, for these professionals deserved better. Mustering a bit more courage for himself, he strode in front and stood beside the monitors that they were watching a few minutes ago. He didn't care if he failed to look presentable in their eyes.

Such a lame outfit. A shirt, a scarf, plus a pair of trousers and leather shoes. They were a stark contrast to the more rugged attire that his supposed 'subordinates' were wrapped into. As an introduction, the man fixed his glasses and cleared his voice.

"Good evening! …Don't worry, I was not asked by Six to do a surprise inspection."

"That's oddly specific…", Baker asked. "…What are you doing here, eh?"

"Visiting.", he chuckled. "Six wanted me to make sure you were treated well by our gracious hosts…"

They remained silent, as if the words didn't surprise them even for a bit. Harry changed the subject by turning around to the screens, realizing that they were still playing live cameras feeds of the operation that just concluded. A large ship, drifting in its lonesome at sea, boarded Rainbow Operators who were marked as blinking lights. Eight men and women moved to their designated rendezvous with weapons drawn, moving past blank lights that indicated where an enemy combatant laid dead. Once again, a textbook boarding mission done as clean as possible. The only fly in the ointment was the container truck's worth of uranium, no doubt the hijackers' real target. This news would surely not turn out well for every defense agency across Europe, realizing that the catalyst for a potential terror attack had just be thwarted on their backyard.

Such was the nature of Team's line of work.

"…Chilling isn't it?", Harry went on. "…Let us hope our friends in the Navy can pick up the slack for us… We cannot afford to have another one of these ships slipping through our fingers."

He pointed at one of the screens.

"…You see this? Everything you've learned until this point, every tactic and skill… they will soon be put to the test. That, in part, is the reason why you are here..."

Then he removed his eyeglasses, accentuating his point.

"…And I certainly hope that you are not regretting your career choices right now. We can't afford to turn back."

Typical jest from a civilian, met with scoffs and fake giggles from the heavyweights, so as to not ruin the moment. But Harry's words were also rhetorical, as he already knew the answers that these Operators were looking for. One of them had the gall to call him out of his crap, right before a quick round of laughs ensued in the room.

"That's it?", Grace blurted out. "You came a loooong way for a lecture, doctor."

The laughs certainly helped clear the air with everyone, who just witnessed a rather-tense few minutes unfold at the monitors. Silence soon started to settle, to which the man took an opportunity to have a sweeping glance at the people in front of him. He brought them all here, albeit at different points in time. From here on out, he would be accountable for them and their success. Much as how Rainbow would be accountable for the world's well-being, for better or worse. Easier said than done, considering the stakes laid before them were daunting indeed. Yet this was the path they chose to take. The burden they chose to carry. Aurelia had led them this far.

"No, I'm not.", Harry continued. "I actually have an announcement to make."

"Huh? But you said-"

Once again, Grace failed to catch onto the lie. It was enough to make the man smile yet again.

"Rainbow Six will be resigning next month… _I_ will be replacing her."

Now, the real work could begin.

…

* * *

 **Author's Final Comments/Notes: **It was a little hard for me to flesh out a character we've literally seen or heard just once. Hard to imagine he would be taking the reins from Angela Basset's character, which makes me believe that Ubisoft will be adding more snippets of him in the near future. Hopefully they'll be through an amazing CG short film too, or even a trailer, so I've got my fingers crossed for the upcoming Season.

And so, another story comes to a close! Thank you all for the support and feedback! Apologies if certain bits of the fanfic allude to vague things and events. These are all part of the setup for the next big narrative I'll be making, "Zero Protocol", much like how it was when I wrote Part One of this story. Can't promise any ETAs yet, but hopefully I won't take too long this time. Please look forward to it! ;)

Until next time!


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